Ships That Pass In The Night
by meetmeinstlouie
Summary: "Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing..." -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Carson and Mrs. Hughes worked together at Downton for many years, forming a bond which became one of love. Little did they know they were NOT the first of either of their families to meet, or how their ancestors' meetings determined the course of their lives.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yes, it's me. Again.**

 **To paraphrase Carol Burnett, I got an idea and I just couldn't resist it. Here is another fic, a short one this time. (Pinky swear!)**

 **The inspiration for this comes from ChelsieSouloftheAbbey's wonderful "I've Loved You Before". This one does not delve into reincarnation, as hers does, but it deals with the idea that we never really know who touches our lives, and how it affects the future.**

 **I'm planning this to be around seven chapters long, and for canon Charles and Elsie to be in the last few. They are the descendants of the people who appear at the beginning. It's not always going to be Charles's ancestor = male and Elsie's ancestor = female. The interactions will not be solely romantic in nature. That's not to say they** _ **won't**_ **be either…I'm just using my imagination here.**

 **The title comes from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: "Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing/Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness/So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another/Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence."**

* * *

 _Gaul, 52 B.C.E._

She crouches in the mud as a light rain falls from the night sky. The rope tied around her ankle is not a strong one, and she could likely break it, but there is no use in trying.

Hordes of Arverni are around her. They pass by, going from one mud house to another, laughing and chattering to each other in a language she cannot understand.

Why her husband wished to bring her to the edge of civilization, she will never know. Being the only Roman woman in a Roman camp is bad enough.

Being a prisoner, a Roman woman in this Arverni village, is a living nightmare.

And it will only get worse.

She should have insisted on staying in Narbo.

Several men stop to leer at her. Even in the night, in the smoky darkness next to the fire, she sees the lust in their eyes. She bows her head, her long brown hair falling across her face. She swallows bile, her belly churning.

The man set to guard her grips his sword a little tighter. He says something curt to his fellows. They leave off their staring with reluctance, going into another house.

She is not beautiful. Not like other women. She has known it since she was a child. Her family's wealth is the only reason she was married. Her husband's family is an old one, with a proud history of military service in the Republic.

But the barbarians only want one thing from a woman. They care nothing for beauty.

Shivering, she grips her knees. One of the women dragged before her into the chieftain's house screams. Again. Then louder. Someone, a man, laughs inside.

The guard shuffles his feet next to her and throws a half-dry piece of wood on the fire. It blazes up, despite the rain.

She glances up when she hears him humming.

* * *

He has stood guard for his uncle before. It is a symbol of trust. His uncle, the chieftain, is one of the greatest warriors of their people, except for the mighty Vercingetorix.

One of his uncle's favorite prizes is the women they capture.

Standing in front of the thatched roundhouse, he hums to try to drown out the agonizing screams of his uncle's latest prize.

Then the next one.

And the next.

He has taken some in battle himself before, and had his way with them.

But no longer.

His own wife sleeps in a house far away, hopefully safe from the Romans who are determined to conquer them. He smiles, thinking of her.

He wonders if the child she carries will have yellow hair like his, or hair the color of fire. Like hers.

The woman on the ground before him sniffs. His smile fades. Whether she is a wife or not, it does not matter.

His uncle will have her.

And if she is fortunate, she will live.

She might.

When he and two others found her walking by a stream the previous day, she had put up a better fight than most. One warrior lost what remained of his teeth. Another had his arm twisted so badly, he could not hold his sword properly after.

The guard feels his swollen face gingerly.

She is almost as tall as he is.

The rain lessens. The village quiets as the night goes on. Except in the chieftain's house. One woman tries to run, getting to the door. The chieftain drags her back inside.

The guard's head droops in weariness. The woman sitting on the ground next to him is plainly exhausted.

She sniffs again, and pulls her hair back from her face. She brushes away both tears and rain. There is a persistent curl that keeps falling onto her forehead.

He cannot stop himself from looking at her. She was so strong before, but now she is weak. Alone.

Their eyes meet.

* * *

His eyes look dark. His hair is plastered to the side of his face, his beard dripping with water.

He does not look at her like a barbarian. No lust. Only curiosity. Pity? No, she is seeing things.

He takes a sudden step towards her, and she flinches, crawling away from him. The rope stops her from going too far. Before she can move again, he leans down and cuts it, freeing her.

Terror rips through her.

She is sure he has decided to take her himself.

He speaks quietly, holding a finger to his lips. Despite her fear, she finds his voice soothing. It is light and gentle. Not deep and booming like her husband's.

If only she knew what the man was _saying_.

From his expression, she sees his own frustration. He holds out a hand, wanting her to take it. That she understands.

But she cannot trust him. What will he do to her? She should run.

He says something again, more insistent. He glances at the house. There is no sound.

When she glances toward the door, he grabs her hand and yanks her to her feet before she can stop him.

They run out of the village, him pulling her behind him.

* * *

Speed matters the most. That he knows. Hopefully his uncle has fallen asleep, or is still distracted by the women in his house.

He will tell him he fell asleep, and when he woke the woman was gone. And that he went after her.

It has never happened before, but he hopes his uncle will believe him.

Why he is doing this, he hardly knows. Something in the woman's face. In her eyes.

He somehow knows if their fates were reversed, that she would help him. That she would be on _his_ side.

The open fields around the village are empty. The sky above is dark, but he knows it is just before the break of dawn.

They must stop more than once. The first time is because she falls. She does not know this land like he does. Whether it is day or night, he knows every rock, every hole. They pass by a smaller gathering of houses. A fire burns outside one, but no one is awake. Not even the dogs.

The way they came with her yesterday was by the stream. But he does not dare take her that way. If they are followed, that is the way the other men would think they would go.

She stumbles again, and he slows, then stops by a clump of trees. He still holds her hand tightly in his.

She is trembling. He loosens his grip on her hand a little before bringing his other hand to cover hers, to soothe her shaking hand between his two steady ones.

He waits until her breathing slows, then they go on.

Holding her hand feels as natural as singing.

* * *

She has no choice but to run behind him. His hand grips hers so tightly, she cannot break free.

Stepping into a hole, she almost turns her ankle. She falls heavily on her hip. He stops, but only long enough for her to stand again, before they continue on.

Where is he _taking_ her? She has lost every sense of direction. Even most of the stars have disappeared.

With every passing moment, her panic grows. He has stolen her away to have her to himself. Then he will leave her, lost and broken.

They stop near several trees. There is a slight breeze that rustles the leaves above them.

Her entire body shakes and her teeth chatter. The trembling in her hand is so strong she knows he can feel it, too.

Feel her fear.

He places his other hand on top of hers, wrapping her hand between both of his. The only sounds are their ragged breathing and the whisper of the wind.

She knows, she somehow knows, he will not hurt her.

And that he will not abandon her in this strange place.

They run on. The sky turns to grey.

She is glad for their speed for another reason.

When he held her hand between his own, his touch was so soothing she wanted him to hold it longer.

Clouds fade away into the west as the east blushes with the sun.

In the distance is the Roman camp. She is home.

Safe.

Because of an Arverni stranger.

He stops suddenly, and she almost runs into him, still looking down to watch her step.

She is only a little shorter than he is. They stare at each other in the light of day.

He has blue eyes.

He points to the camp, and she nods. She must thank him, this man who saved her. For reasons she will never know.

" _Gratias tibi ago*_ ," she says finally. He says something low in return. His face looks a little red, but she is sure it is because they have been running so long.

She walks past him towards her home, to her husband, her people.

When she looks back one last time he is still standing there, watching her.

* * *

His uncle is not furious, as he feared. He simply roars with laughter.

Within a year, his uncle, as well as Vercingetorix and many members of their tribe, are dead.

The Romans have conquered them.

Defeat would have broken him once. He still feels anger, seeing their soldiers march everywhere. Seeing the world he knew change.

But when his friends or kinsman mutter about rebellion, he sets it aside. This is the world they live in. The world of the empire.

There are better things to think of.

His daughter fusses early one morning while it is still dark. His wife groans, half-asleep, so he picks up their little girl in between them and carries her outside. To watch the dawn.

Bouncing her in his arms, he grins as she giggles, pulling on his beard. He kisses her and strokes her soft hair. It is red, like her mother's. But her eyes are blue.

He watches the sun rise. And thinks of the Roman woman. Wondering where she is, and what she is doing.

He hopes she is happy.

* * *

She rises from the bed when her newborn son's cries get louder. The bed, along with the house, she thinks is too ostentatious for Gaul. It is a pale shadow of her father's villa in Herculaneum.

But her husband is the commander and he wanted it built for his family.

She sits in a quiet corner, nursing her baby. He eats well. His father declares he will be a splendid soldier one day, boasting about their son to everyone.

Nuzzling her cheek against his soft one, she kisses him and walks to the window. The day is breaking. Clouds overshadow most of the sky, but there is a burst of color on the horizon. She smiles when the baby coos, and she lightly touches his dimpled chin.

She holds him up so he can see the sun rise.

She prays the Arverni man is still with the living. She wonders if he is alive. If he has a home, or a family.

Her son would not be in her arms now had the strange barbarian not saved her the year before.

She hopes he has found peace.

* * *

 **A/N: *formal way of saying thank you in Latin.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sadness alert. I should have known, the premise of this fic being what it is.**

 ***Frigidarium (cold bath), tepidarium (warm), caldarium (hot). This chapter is set in what is now Bath, in the U.K. If you ever have the chance to go and visit the Roman baths there, do. They're fascinating.**

 **Thank you for the nice reviews! Please let me know what you think of this chapter, if you have a moment. The rest of this fic is pretty well set, but this chapter was the most indefinite of all of them.**

* * *

 _Aquae Sulis, 2_ _nd_ _century, C.E._

Steam rises from the hot water. He sighs in relief, and the persistent ache in his bones lessens.

He has traveled to the famous baths with his son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren for the winter. The hot spring's healing powers are well known to young and old alike. He eschews the cold bath and the tepidarium, preferring the heat of the caldarium.*

After leaving the water, he retrieves his clothes and his walking stick. He says a prayer thanking the goddess Minerva for not letting anyone steal his belongings. Today.

Pranksters often do.

Walking outside, the cold air makes him shiver. The area outside is crowded. Some people stand or sit with their backs to the warm stone wall. He reaches out, skimming his fingers along it. With his other hand he clutches his stick.

He pauses when he sees a familiar figure next to the wall. He nods at the woman seated in the mud. Her smile is natural, not forced, like the days when she is in pain. His heart eases a little.

Her hair is mostly grey. It intertwines with darker strands and some lighter ones. Time has left lines on her face, but there is a youthfulness there that still persists. Especially when she smiles. Or laughs with those around her. Which is often.

A skinny spotted dog whines, moving about the crowd. Some friendly hands, including the woman's, pet him. He trots toward the broad man near the wall.

Smiling, the man bends down and opens his hand. There is a sliver of meat there. The dog swallows it instantly. The man scratches his ears before standing back up. He holds on to his stick and walks home.

His small friend watches him go. He knows he will come back, and when he does, there will be something to eat.

* * *

She watches the man feed the dog. The gesture makes her both thankful that there is kindness in the world, and also dismay that he does not keep the meat for himself.

He is too thin for a man his size.

On this day he is at the baths alone, but that is rare. Sometimes he is with his son, but more often there are one or more grandchildren with him. She likes to watch him with them.

He is firm, but gentle with all children. Some of the locals are shy with him at first. But he wins their trust. She has often seen him sitting against the wall with two in his lap, and three or four others at his knees.

The grandchildren she has seen him with most often are a talkative brown-haired girl, and a quiet boy with soft eyes and a dimpled chin. She thinks the boy must look like his grandfather once did when he was young.

Her daughter and granddaughter break her reverie, asking if she wants to get up. She does. The younger women help her stand, each holding one of her arms.

There is little pain today.

Ever since her last child was pulled from her years ago, she has been unable to walk without discomfort. One of her legs is shorter than the other.

When she was young, she ran everywhere.

Living near the baths provides a way for her to have comfort and some healing.

As she enters the tepidarium, then later soaking in the caldarium, she basks both in the warmth of the water and in the company of her relatives.

She wonders how long the man and his family will stay.

* * *

His daughter-in-law declares that she has been healed by the spring beneath the baths. He and the rest of the family are relieved.

His son's wife is rarely happy.

The dog keeps finding him, near the entrance to the baths. He feeds the animal – but only when his daughter-in-law is not watching. His grandchildren, and occasionally his son, do the same.

One day as they wait in a cold drizzle to go in, he sees the woman feeding the dog. She looks up and catches his eye. They smile at each other. She shakes her head a little, laughing, when the dog licks at her fingers, hoping for more.

More than once he wishes he could talk to her. It is not that he does not like his own family. But it would be a comfort to speak with someone nearer his age. To reflect on how life has altered them, and to boast about grandchildren.

She is nearly always with a younger woman, likely her daughter. Sometimes a yellow-haired girl with blue eyes is with them. The first time he sees _two_ identical girls with their grandmother, he thinks he has lost his mind. He calms when someone speaks to them. They laugh as some in the crowd turn to stare. Twins are not a common sight.

At times only one or neither of the girls are there. One morning, he sees the woman sitting in the winter sun with her daughter and a little boy. The boy feeds and plays with the dog for a little while, running up and down by the wall. When he returns to his grandmother she ruffles his red hair fondly.

* * *

Her pain comes and goes. It is something she has lived with for a long time. What helps is having her family close by, and others to think of.

She thinks the man has gained some weight as winter deepens. She hopes by her feeding the dog, it keeps him from giving necessary food away. Of course she does not know what it is like for him at home.

But she thinks she knows.

The day the man's daughter-in-law shouts at him – all for dropping a bowl! – it takes all of her willpower not to rush over and slap the disrespectful woman.

He apologizes calmly to his son's wife and tells her to lower her voice, aware that the crowd is watching. His grandson picks up the bowl.

As they pass her, she sees his granddaughter take his elbow gently. In his eyes there is shame.

Though he tries to hide them, his hands shake.

And she understands.

Her heart aches for him. She knows what it is like to have one's body fail. To grow old and change.

She is nothing to him, nor he to her. Not really.

Is it strange that she thinks of him as a friend, and yet they have never spoken face to face?

It would be nice to speak to someone who has lived a long life, like her. She sometimes feels lonely. Maybe he feels the same.

If she could, she would sit beside him next to the wall and ask him about his family. Hold his trembling hands.

If he would let her. She is not sure he would. He seems to be the sort of man who would rather pretend he is well and whole, rather than show his weaknesses.

But she can never seem to have a chance to know for certain. There is never a moment when both she and he are alone.

* * *

He hates that she was a witness to his shame. To have his daughter-in-law, a woman who he has tried to cherish as his own child, shout at him in front of everyone as though _he_ was a child, is bad enough.

But he is sure the woman saw his shaking hands as he walked by her.

For days, he does not look for her, though he knows she is there. He can feel her blue eyes following him.

He is a fool. Surely she does not think _less_ of him. She has her own burdens, just as he does.

She seems the sort of woman who would accept the passage of time better than he could.

If they ever spoke to each other, maybe he would know for sure what sort of woman she is.

Maybe they would be friends.

He knows that she is friendly towards him. Still, he cannot bring himself to meet her gaze.

Until one damp, cold, day when the clouds have descended to the earth, making everything hazy. One of her granddaughters is with her. The poor girl is clearly upset. He glances their way when he sees the blonde hair, and he hears the young woman pleading with those around them.

The woman is huddled against the wall. At first he thinks it is just for warmth.

Then he sees her face.

Her face is drawn and pinched, a sickening grey. Her lips are pressed together.

She is in pain. Terrible pain.

He lets go of his granddaughter's hand and is beside the woman in an instant.

* * *

Pain wakes her. In her back, in her shorter leg, and most of all in her hip. Getting up is a struggle. She does so because staying in bed will only prolong her pain, and likely worsen it.

Her daughter and son-in-law try to persuade her to stay at home, as do her grandchildren. Finally one of her granddaughters agrees to go with her to the baths.

They have not gone far before she regrets her stubbornness.

Every step is agony.

By the time they reach the wall outside the baths, she can barely move. She clings to the wall and its warmth. Her legs are like water but to sit would be to endure more pain.

A deep voice rumbles at her ear. The man she has seen speaks to her granddaughter, and the two talk to each other, but such is her pain she cannot understand a word between them.

He has to ask twice if she can walk before she hears him. She moves her foot, but the white-hot stab in her hip prevents her from going any farther. Tears fill her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She shakes her head.

She should have stayed at home. Her granddaughter cannot move her, and no one here will. If only she could reach the tepidarium at least, the pain would recede a little.

It would be easier to fly like one of the birds than to walk.

He stands at her side, her shoulder bumping his chest. He whispers that he will carry her.

Before she can say a word (if she were able), he engulfs her in his arms.

He lifts her like a child, holding her against his chest, her legs dangling uselessly. The relief she feels in her hip and legs is so great she does not heed anything around them. Not the crowd staring or the two girls following behind the tall man.

Her head rests on his broad shoulder.

Faintly, it comes to her that she _should_ be embarrassed that a man she does not know at all holds her so close.

But she is not.

It feels as natural as breathing.

* * *

He trudges slowly, both because the thick mud is slippery beneath his feet, and because he does not want to cause her more hurt.

She is not heavy. But he has not lifted anyone larger than his youngest grandson in years. His arms do not have the same strength as they did when he was a young man.

Her granddaughter and his run around him to clear a path through the rooms. People let them pass to the tepidarium. By the time they get there, his back is screaming, his knees are buckling beneath him, and sweat pours down his face.

His instinct is to open his arms and let her go, but he knows he cannot do that. He waits until her granddaughter is ready and then he slowly lowers the woman to the ground.

She gasps, biting her lip when she is standing once more. The two girls take her hands and lead her slowly away to settle into the bath.

Breathing hard, he leaves and goes outside. The cold air feels good against his glistening skin.

His aching arms feel empty.

Had he the strength, he would carry her again.

* * *

The worst of the pain ebbs in the warm water. During the rest of the cold weather, she is careful when she moves. Cautious, even. To not go too far, or to do too much.

She will always remember his kindness.

That day while she recovered in the bath, several women spoke up and said how they wished they had husbands who were so loving.

Her face grows warm just thinking of it.

He is not her husband, of course. He is simply a man who helped her.

She tries to help him. To give something back of what he has given to her. Kindness.

As the days pass, they find a pattern. He is often at the baths early in the day, while she arrives later. He sits with her along the wall before she goes in. They talk of the weather, of a husband and wife gone. Of their children.

Of memories from when their children were young. And how much greater it would have been to have the wisdom of age combined with the freshness of youth.

They are both thankful to have lived so long. Few people do.

Their granddaughters chatter and laugh together. His shy grandson comes out of his shell when her lively one pulls him into a game with several other boys.

She smiles when he first tells her his name. _Crispus_. A good name, she tells him. Laughter dances in her eyes. He brushes impatiently at the silver curls on his forehead.

His expression makes her laugh out loud.

* * *

He does not mind her teasing. Not really.

He asks for her name after he gives her his, and is confused by her sudden reluctance. She says it quietly, looking away.

 _Livia._

By the bright hair of her grandchildren and the color of her eyes, he would not have guessed she was a Roman. Like him.

She is a Brython, she tells him. At least her mother was.

He listens as she talks. He has a feeling she has never spoken of these things before.

Of growing up a slave in the kitchens of a wealthy Roman's villa. Of never quite belonging in her own family. Of a man she called father and who she tried to love, but who never loved her. Not like he loved her brothers and sisters.

Of the master who freed her when she became a woman. Who told her he named her on the day she was born.

The master who was her father.

Crispus tries to reassure her that it is not a shameful thing. His own mother was a Brython, he tells her. And though she never told him, it would not surprise him if she had once been a slave herself. His father was very protective of her.

She smiles through red-rimmed eyes.

He tells her of farming land with his brother. Of the girl he loved as a youth. Of his brother, who was betrothed, then married to the girl and had a family with her.

The woman next to him – Livia – reaches over and places a hand on his arm. He wipes his eyes.

He learned to love his wife, and misses her still. They adored their children. The son he lives with now is their second son, and youngest child.

They both laugh when the grandsons bring the dog over to them. The little imp has fattened during the winter.

He pretends to be hurt that the animal prefers his friend.

For Livia is his friend, and he is hers.

* * *

Livia hates when spring comes. Crispus and his family prepare to leave.

As much as she and her family would like them all to stay, she knows they cannot. They have a home. And it is not in Aquae Sulis.

He stands by the wall as she says farewell to his grandchildren, and to his son and daughter-in-law.

His son's wife has changed for the better. He thinks it is Livia's influence, though he knows if he told her so, she would argue with him.

There is a long silence between them. He breaks it, saying he will miss this place. As will the children, of course.

She agrees with him. Their grandsons in particular have become good friends. She will pray for him and his family, that they return home and that they have a good harvest.

He thanks her in a soft voice. He prays her family will have good fortune.

There are tears in his eyes as he leaves.

Though he has had good friends, Livia has been his closest friend.

And he cannot bear to think he will never see her again.

She watches him until the road turns and she cannot see him anymore.

Slowly she walks home. Her hip hurts, but the pain in her heart is worse.

The dog climbs onto her lap when she sits outside her daughter's house. She pets his soft fur, crying.

Crispus is her friend. And she will miss him.

Very much.

* * *

 **A/N: Crispus means "curly-haired" in Latin.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I am so sorry for not updating sooner! We spent a good part of Saturday with friends, and I woke up Sunday fighting a cold.**

 **To be honest, this chapter was very difficult to write. Ugh. I like the _idea_ of angst, but writing it is another thing altogether. To be clear - in this fic, the main characters in each chapter are related to Chelsie in some way.**

 **One good thing that came out of this chapter was reading about the Holy Island of Lindisfarne. It looks like a beautiful place.**

 **Historical notes – the Viking raid on the island monastery was the first of its kind in what is now the United Kingdom. I have tried to write the event with as little violence as possible. Also, Eoforwic is an old name for York.**

 **TW for character death.**

* * *

 _Island of Lindisfarena, June 793, C.E._

The tide is out when the ships land. Men leap from them onto the shore, their spears ready.

No one on the island knows death approaches until it is upon them.

Elric is with two of the brothers, helping them gather herbs for healing. When Brother David gasps, he looks up and his mouth drops open in shock.

The church is on fire.

Without a word, the three race toward it. The monks, both young men, quickly outrun the brown-haired boy. He follows behind them, his heart pounding. Praying that the holy place may be saved. And that no one is inside.

The church bell rings, telling him there _are_ people, his brothers and friends, in danger. Other buildings are ablaze as well.

Figures run with all speed towards the black smoke rising in the late afternoon sky. He thinks nothing of it at first. Of course everyone wants to help put out the flames.

But as he nears the church, two men he has never seen before grab Brother David and thrust their spears into him.

A shriek – his own - rends the air. Elric watches the brother's body crumple to the ground.

He is frozen in place until the men turn towards him. The blood shines on their spears.

His chest heaving in grief, he runs for his life.

 _Who are they? What do they want? Why –_ why _did they kill Brother? Oh Mother of God – COL!_

Col, his best friend.

They have both been here at the monastery for seven years. Half of their lives. They arrived as children, and will likely never leave the island again.

Both are faithful to their vows. Col knows every ritual like they are extensions of himself. He is never late for prayers or Mass, fasts diligently, and keeps every vigil. He is matched in piety by Elric, who shows his devotion in less introspective ways. Elric is the brother who is nearly always found with others. Giving a comforting word, a hand on a shoulder, or simply being a willing ear to listen. Even some of the older brothers come to him.

It is a constant back-and-forth between the brothers as to which boy will be Abbot one day. Col, or Elric?

They say it is a shame Lindisfarena cannot have _two_ Abbots.

But all thoughts of the future vanish as Elric races away, desperate to lose the strange men chasing him. He leaps a low fence and almost falls on his face, but keeps his balance and runs on.

The monastery is on fire, too.

His heart fails within him. But there is no time. He _must_ find Col. His friend. His brother.

The person he loves most in the world.

Even more than the Abbot.

More than he loves himself.

Screams come from inside the monastery. Fire leaps from its roof.

He slams his shoulder against the door, choking on smoke, holding his arm over his face. He kicks it. Once, twice, three times. He screams in frustration, pounding on the unyielding barrier. He wishes he were Col's size – no doubt his friend would have smashed the heavy door the first time he tried.

It finally gives way, and he falls into the room. Crawling forward, he tries to see through the smoke. The heat is terrible.

Someone yells quite close. He reaches out, and touches a hand. A small one.

Familiar brown eyes, flecked with green, appear in a tear-stained face. Elric yanks on Dunstan's arm. He half-pulls, half-drags Col's younger brother outside.

"Where is Col?" He asks, coughing.

Dunstan sobs uncontrollably. He lays down on the ground.

"Dunstan!" Elric's throat is so tight he can barely get the words out. He grabs the boy by the shoulders, forcing him to sit up. "Where is your brother? Is he inside?"

Dunstan takes a gulping breath and nods. Elric tells him to stay there, praying the men with spears don't find the younger boy. He plunges back inside. It is, if anything, even hotter than before.

He tries to see, crawling forward through burning cinders. He finds another boy nearer his age, Osgar, and sends him in the direction of the door. He hears someone crying.

Leo clings to him, his little arms around his neck. Elric tries to stand but he cannot draw a deep breath. He falls, the little boy beneath him. At that moment, a flaming beam crashes down. It blocks their path.

He cannot breathe or see. Leo screams beneath him, but there is nowhere to go. They are both going to die.

Until the most welcome voice he has ever heard floats through the darkness.

"ELRIC! Where are you!?"

* * *

Col is in the monastery preparing for Vespers when he and several other boys hear shouts, and the bell ringing. They run outside to see what is going on. Men they have never seen before are running among the buildings. They carry spears and shields. Some have bows.

Flames burst from a window in the church.

Everything is in confusion. He takes one breath, his mind spinning, trying to understand what is happening.

A spear flies through the air near him, and he flinches. On his left, Brother Caedda is pierced through the chest. Blood bubbles out of his mouth.

The shrieking of the little boys snaps Col from his reverie.

He picks up Dunstan under one arm, and Leo in the other. He yells for the others to come with him. They rush back to the monastery, pursued by the sound of screams.

He feels a sharp pain near his right knee but ignores it.

He does not know who these men are, with their spears and strange tunics, but he has seen enough to know he has to protect his younger brother, and the other boys.

He sets Dunstan on his little pallet where he sleeps. Osgar follows him. They both creep to the door and peer outside.

To their utter horror, they watch one boy, Wulf, shot by an arrow. Then several other brothers. Another brother grabs the arm of a man wielding a spear, but the monk is thrown aside.

The Abbot is murdered before their eyes.

They shut the door. Osgar is panting, his face drained of color. His vivid red hair makes his pallor even more extreme.

Col's hands tremble. In his fourteen years, he has never seen anything so horrendous. Not even his father's death from fever. His breath comes short.

He must stay calm, if only for Dunstan's sake.

If Elric were with him he would be calm-

He lets out a yelp. All of the air leaves his body.

 _ELRIC!_

Leaping to his feet, he opens the door. Osgar tries to push it shut, telling him not to go, but he stops when he sees the taller boy's face.

Col commands him to stay with Dunstan and Leo, then he flies outside.

The bodies of slain brothers lie in the churchyard, in doorways. In the fields. He sees several boys being led towards ships. He does not see Elric with them. If there was more time he would try to help their other friends, but only one person matters to him now.

Without thinking, he bellows his best friend's name.

Several arrows whistle far too close to him, and he runs half bent over away from the shore. Only vaguely thinking of it, he reaches down and yanks out an arrow embedded in the back of his leg.

The pain is nothing. His heart burns within him.

 _If they have taken him-_

 _If he is hurt, or-or-_

A rage he has never felt before thunders through him. Along with it comes knowledge that has never been so clear to him.

Elric means everything to him. _Everything._

Dunstan is his brother by blood, and he loves him, but Elric is his other half.

The thought of living without him…

 _No._

Where _is_ he? There are precious few places where he could have gone.

Sweat beads on his forehead. He stumbles, his feet heavy. As he falls to the ground, his hands in front of him, he knows where Elric is.

His friend would be looking for _him_.

From a distance, he sees smoke billowing from the monastery. Panic seizes his heart.

Dunstan throws his arms around him. Col hugs his brother fiercely, relieved he is not inside. Osgar coughs, his face sooty.

"Elric is in there-"

The words are hardly out of his mouth before Col lets go of Dunstan and charges into the flames.

Darkness, smoke, and heat overwhelm him. But he shouts as loud as he can, trying to move forward.

A great beam has fallen across the room. The roof above him groans as though it is in agony.

 _If it falls, everyone in here will die._

Licking flames along the fallen beam illuminate a dark shape behind it. He moves the beam a little with his foot, burning himself, but he does not care.

Elric.

His friend looks up, his blue eyes hazy. He smiles and struggles to get up, helping the smaller boy beneath him. He pushes Leo forward.

Col's relief is so strong his legs feel weak. At the same time, he is so angry he wants to shake his friend.

 _Of_ _course_ _you protect others before yourself! Why must you be like that?_

Another beam falls behind Elric. A wall of flame erupts from it, and there is an ominous sound, like the howling of the wind on a stormy day. The three race for the door, Leo in front. Col puts a hand on Elric's back, pushing his friend forward.

No sooner have they emerged into the daylight when there is a tremendous crash. The roof of the monastery caves in, taking one of the walls with it. Flames shoot out, clawing at anything it can reach.

The five boys keep down, crawling to the field where the brothers keep their cows.

The animals are gone.

Elric collapses onto the ground, coughing. His chest hurts, and with every breath comes a whistling sound.

Col rubs his eyes. They sting. Crying, Leo wails that he cannot see. Col and Osgar wipe his face and eyes clean, trying to get him to open them. He blinks slowly, squinting.

"Are-are you all right?" Elric gasps, still wheezing. There is soot all over his face and in his hair. He drags himself into a sitting position, his eyes on Col. Dunstan, still crying, sits beside him. Elric puts an arm around him.

"I am," Col mumbles. He has had a man's voice for half a year, and it is not that which causes his voice to break. He struggles not to cry.

 _I thought you were dead._

"What were you _thinking_?" He snaps his head towards Elric. "Did you think you could lift the beam by yourself?"

Seeing his friend whole, and alive, brings back all of his fears.

"No. It fell when I was already inside," Elric coughs again. He is, as ever, calm.

Col is not angry, not really, but his voice gets louder.

"Why did you go in there? Fool! Why not go find Brother David, or-"

"Brother David is dead," Elric says. He closes his eyes, and a tear runs down his cheek. "And it is no good shouting at me." He raises an eyebrow at Col. "I was looking for _you_."

Col's heart skips at the expression on his face. He looks away, ashamed.

"Get down!" whispers Osgar. They all fall forward on the ground. Several of the strange men gather nearby, south of the still-burning church. They talk together in a language none of the boys know.

"Who are they?" Dunstan whispers, his eyes wide. "Where did they come from?"

"Does it matter?" Col glances around. "Come on, this way." He leads them away from the men, crawling until they reach the far side of the former monastery.

Osgar cries out at the sight of a body there, charred and broken. It is Hob, another boy they know.

The five of them say a prayer over their friend. As Col finishes it, they all look up at the sound of a distant horn.

None of them want to think about night falling, and the men with spears searching for anyone alive.

Col whispers to his friends about the ships he had seen. The boys being taken away.

"We have to get away from here," says Elric softly, as Leo whimpers, holding his hand. "We have to find help. Warn everyone."

The surrounding fields are empty. It is likely the men who farm the land are also dead, or have fled.

Lindisfarena is only an island at high tide. As now, at low tide, they can walk to the coast over the mud flats.

Hopefully they will not be seen.

* * *

The coast of Northumbria is a mile away.

Their feet sink into the sand. They run in a single line, hoping to make it harder for any bowman who may be watching them to get a clean shot.

The sun is sinking in front of them, making it difficult to see.

Osgar is in front. Just behind him is Dunstan, then Leo. Elric keeps the younger boys running. It is difficult for him to run, every breath a struggle, but he manages it. Often he turns to look back. Both to see if they are being followed, and to reassure himself that Col is there.

The tall boy also looks back quite often. More than once he turns back around, shading his eyes, and sees Elric watching him. He smiles to put his friend at ease.

Once, when Elric turns, he sees Col stopped, farther behind them. He glances back at the other three. They are close to each other, Osgar not letting the younger boys trail too far behind him.

Elric goes back to Col, who is bent over.

"You are bleeding." He crouches down, his finger wiping the blood running down Col's leg and pooling on his foot.

"Just a scratch."

Their eyes meet.

They both know he is lying.

"We must not get too far from the others," Col says, standing up straight. "Not before night."

By the time they all reach the coast, the sun has nearly sunk into the horizon. Leo and Dunstan sink down on the sand, exhausted.

The three older boys talk in hushed tones.

All of them are hungry. But it is too dark to search for food, and there are no dwellings that they can see nearby.

They dare not light a fire, for fear that the men who murdered their brothers, the men who came in ships, will see it and come for them.

They will have to wait for dawn to seek help.

At least it is warm, and not raining.

They find a fresh stream further inland and lay down there, to stay out of the tide. Col rips part of his tunic to wrap around his leg. The wind blows clouds across the sky, as it changes from rose to red, from purple to dark blue.

To stave off the grief which must surely come, they tell stories. Sing songs. Col makes Dunstan laugh until he cries.

Dunstan and Leo, then Osgar, fall asleep beneath the stars.

Elric tosses on the ground. His chest aches and his mind races. Memories of the day – the church ablaze, Brother David's death, fleeing to the coast – all keep him awake long into the night.

But he is not alone.

Col talks of when they first came to Lindisfarena. Of how hard the stone floor was under their knees during prayer. Of how angry he was that God had taken away first his mother, then his father. Leaving him and Dunstan alone.

How he came to love the island and the brothers. The sea.

Elric drifts to sleep listening to him.

He startles awake, feeling cold. Osgar breathes deep beside him. The younger boys are sprawled next to them. Dunstan snores, which makes Elric smile.

 _Like your brother._

Col is not there.

Getting up, Elric groans a little, his body stiff. By the dim grey light of the morning, he sees the breaking white of the waves on the sand. His friend lies there.

"Elric?"

Col's voice is barely heard over the never-ending sound of the sea.

Elric turns his head. "I am here."

"Can you hear it? The singing?" Col lifts his head a little. "Like at Matins. Hob, and Brother David…Father Abbot."

Elric's heart skips a beat. He sits on the sand, moving closer to Col's side. "I…there is nothing but the sea."

"So beautiful," whispers Col. "Mother used to sing…"

His mother died giving birth to Dunstan.

Elric bends over and places the back of his hand against his friend's forehead, against his cheek.

 _Cold._

"Col," he whispers. His teeth chatter. "Can you hear me? _Col_!"

Col blinks, licking his lips. "Mmmm."

Elric looks at his friend's knee. At the strip of cloth tied there.

The blood is still fresh.

It is wet against his fingers, red on his skin.

 _No._

 _NO._

Lifting his head again, Col coughs. "It never stopped…I thought it would." His eyes clear and he lays his head back against the sand, exhausted. "Keep Dunstan away, will you? I want his last memory of me to be happy."

"You are _not_ going to die!"

The words come out ringing, strong. A command.

Col smiles up at him. "You sound like me…" He coughs, pain on his face. "I am glad you found me here," he says softly.

Tears spill down Elric's cheeks, dripping off his chin. "You found _me_ ," he whispers. "In the monastery. I would be dead if you had not."

"And my brother would be dead if you had not saved him. Elric," Col takes a short breath. "Our sister Molle lives in Eoforwic*. I want you to take Dunstan there."

"Take him yourself, you can see her-"

"I need _you_ to take him to her. Please."

Elric does not want to believe what is before him.

His friend. Dying.

There is nothing he can do.

So much must be said, but the words will not come.

"Will you?"

Elric swallows, nodding. His heart is torn asunder. "I will see that he gets there. I swear it."

The vow is spoken with as much sincerity as if he is before the holy altar.

Col tries to lift his head, but he has no strength. Elric grabs his shoulders and pulls him up a little, resting his head in his lap. So he can watch the dawn breaking over the waves.

His best friend does not seem to know he is there. He drifts, murmuring words that make no sense. He coughs again.

"Are you there? Elric?" His voice rises higher. He is afraid.

"Here." Elric looks down at him, moving aside a stubborn brown curl.

"Will you-will-" Sighing, Col slumps in his arms. "-hold my hand?" He whispers.

He sounds like the little boy Elric once knew. Afraid to blow the candle out to face the darkness.

Elric takes Col's hand and folds it between his, resting it on his friend's chest.

He weeps openly, turning his head only to keep his tears from falling on Col's face.

 _You can always hold my hand._

After a time, there is no longer a heart beating beneath his hands.

The waves roll onto the shore as the sky brightens.

* * *

Fishermen take in the boys. Leo is sent to a monastery far south, but the others go back to their families.

Despite assurances that Dunstan will be well cared for on his way to Eoforwic, Elric refuses to leave the boy's side.

He travels with him and Osgar to the city. To fulfill his promise to Col.

Dunstan begs him to stay. His sister Molle, her eyes so like her brothers', tells him he has a place under her roof as long as he wishes.

While part of Elric yearns to stay, he knows that his father's brother still lives.

Far away in the north, in old Bernicia.

And as much as he is fond of Dunstan, and regards him like a brother, at times the younger boy reminds him too much of Col. A reminder of who he has lost.

On a foggy morning in September he says goodbye to Dunstan for the last time.

The young boy watches him go. He always remembers him like another brother – the boy who never left Col's side.

In later years, as he watches his family grow around him, he gives thanks for their friendship. Gives thanks for Elric, who saved his life.

Elric makes his way north.

His uncle's farm is not where he thought he would spend the rest of his days.

But he does.

First with his uncle and aunt. Then with his wife and children.

Elric speaks little about his boyhood. About the island where he lived. The place the Northmen attacked. By the time he is old, the lurid tales of what happened there are well known.

He never tells any of his family about his best friend.

Not even his youngest son, Col.

* * *

 **A/N: If you all could drop a line or two and tell me what you think, I'd be very grateful.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Aaaaand these keep getting longer.** **I hate having made you all cry during the last chapter. I cried, too.**

 **Unfortunately, this chapter has a similar ending, so…TW for character death. Yes again. Maybe this chapter and the last are my version of season three?**

 **The idea of this chapter has been around for at least a year. I had plans on making it into an actual fic (with a different ending), but other fics and ideas took over. So it's being used here instead.**

 **I don't pretend to be an expert on the English/Scottish wars. Or to know what ordinary people on either side actually thought about it. The events and thoughts expressed below are as historically accurate as this imperfect writer can make them. I started to fall into a rabbit hole of the Hundred Years' War, Scotland/England/France relations in the 1300s, etc. before giving up and just writing this thing.**

 **Thank you all for reviews, reblogs, comments, etc. Please let me know what you think if you have time.**

 ***The burning of the priory at Hexham, as well as the location of St. Cuthbert's bones and former home are all true. I did not make either of those things up. The reference to "Our Lady" is of course to Mary, the mother of Jesus. Which fic did you think you were reading?**

* * *

 _17_ _th_ _of October, 1346, Neville's Cross. Near Durham, England_

Peter's horse is gone. His helmet has been hewn from his body, nearly taking his head with it.

With tremendous force, he swings his sword. The enemy before him is relieved of an arm. The man screams in pain, sinking forward on his knees into the mud. Peter uses the momentum of his swing to relieve him of his head as well.

Another man comes at him, his sword raised, and he ends him faster than the previous one.

His blood pumps. He feels it pounding at his temple.

Fighting is not something he has done much of, but when the Archbishop of York called for men to defend the north against the Scots, he answered it.

 _How DARE they! Pouring into our country while our king fights in France! Then they burned the priory at Hexham!*_

He joins his fellow Englishmen, pursuing the defeated enemy. Someone finds a fallen standard of the Earl of March. Another finds one belonging to Robert Stewart.

Instead of giving him joy that the Scottish lords abandoned their army, the evidence of their cowardice enrages Peter further.

 _As foolish as their king may have been, at least HE did not leave his own men behind until the very end._

He slows to help a wounded man to his feet. By the time the two of them make their way across a field, the noise of the battle has moved on.

Peter lifts the man to stand against a tree. For the first time since the day began, he feels tired. He rubs his hand through his hair. Sweat and mud together have stuck his curls to his forehead.

He is still catching his breath when two figures approach. They are brothers of the Church. Benedictines. Peter's heart skips at the familiar sight of one of them.

"Praise God you are with the living," his younger brother, Friar John, smiles at the sight of him. The skin around his eyes crinkle. "Some of the English have fallen, but most of the dead are Scots. Matilda and the children will be overjoyed to have you return home."

"As will I," he says, lifting the wounded man by one arm, as John lifts the other. All he wants is a quiet life with his wife, three sons and five daughters. "And God willing, I will never have to go to war again."

Friar Adam takes the man away. John and Peter continue on, following the path of the armies. They stop to help other wounded men. John prays over the dying, both friend and foe alike.

"They were following their lords, and king," he says quietly, covering the face of a Scottish bearded man. "As you were."

Peter sighs. "Yes. But what reason did they have to invade _our_ lands?"

"If the Archbishop had not given a reason to fight, would you have asked him for one?" John raises his eyebrows at Peter's outraged expression. "Do not be so quick to condemn others. You do not know their story."

They are near to the River Browney when they hear the news that the Scottish king, David II, has been captured. Cheering wildly, Peter goes to join several of his friends. He steps around several unfortunate dead, and sidesteps another on the riverbank, when he hears a cough. He looks down.

One of the Scottish knights, his armor battered, slowly rolls onto his back. He, unlike many of his fellows, is not dead.

Peter kneels quickly and reaches for the man's helmet. Despite his anger towards the Scots, he knows a wounded and dying enemy deserves a peaceful death. If one can be given.

He lifts off the helmet and stares in disbelief at the figure before him. Wavy brown hair, deep blue eyes.

The knight is a woman.

* * *

It is not how she thought her life would end. In the mud of England, far from home.

She can barely see out of the eye slits of her helmet.

Well.

It is not _her_ helmet, but her husband's.

The helmet, armor, sword and shield all belong to James. As does the horse. _Did._ Wherever he ran.

It is not stealing, she thinks to herself during the long march from Dubhghlas, if the man to whom all of these things belong is likely dead. And the boy who will inherit them knows she has them.

She has learned to fight. To defend her home. Her father taught her to shoot a bow, swing a sword, and hold a shield, just as he taught her brother William.

Had she married anyone other than James all of these skills would have been forgotten. He is much older than she, and was a child when Edward Longshanks died. He has fought for Scotland all of his life. The death of his son and then his first wife have broken his heart, but not his will.

He does not mind when she practices with the bow, or visits the armory.

He has never been anything but kind to her. And to her nephew, William's son and namesake, who has lived with them since he was orphaned.

She remembers the day the call came from William Douglas for men to ride to England. She had been sitting next to James as he lay in bed, and saw his pale face lose the little color it had when he read the message.

"Elspeth," he had whispered as she held his hand. "The king has called for men to go with him. Young William is not ready, and I am too weak…if only God had let my Davy live."

She had soothed him, talking of his long-dead son until he fell asleep.

Then she had shown the letter to James's trusted bailie Graeme, William, and James's squire Thomas. As they watched it burn in the fire, she softly kissed her husband for the last time.

"He will not live long," Graeme had said. "Before Douglas's men reach England, he will die."

William, ten years old and growing taller every day, hugs her fiercely. He will pray for her safe return.

Only the three know it is not the master who rides to battle, but the mistress.

None of them try to dissuade her.

Both Thomas and Elspeth are dismayed when the priory at Hexham is burned.

"Our war is not with the church," she mutters to the squire beneath her helmet. He nods.

They try to stop some of the worst deeds; hiding some of the church's stolen articles in a nearby barn, and letting people escape.

She thinks of her family that misty morning when the king finally leads them into battle near Durham, against an English army.

Of steady William. Her nephew who is more like a son. Of James and all the battles he has fought, and the battle with death that he will surely lose long before she ever returns home.

If she does return.

Her grandfather and two uncles fell at what the English call Bannockburn. Her brother fought in Cumberland, and never fully healed from his wounds before his death. Her father died at Halidon Hill.

Now it is she who draws a sword against the English.

 _If they would stop meddling in our kingdom, we would have no need to go to theirs! They want the kingdom of France, and Scotland as well! When will it end?_

The strict formations fall apart as the army march forward. The English bowmen do their work well, drawing them out, forcing them to attack from a weaker position.

She sees early on that the day is lost.

But it is not in her blood to flee like so many do.

In the confusion, she loses sight of Thomas. For the duration of the battle, it is simply a matter of survival.

The armor is heavy, and too big for her, but she knows how to handle the sword and shield well. Her quickness saves her more than once.

She cuts down two knights before they sense her presence. Holding her shield up, she feels the arrows glance off it.

It is only when she finds herself facing three men at once that she finally turns and runs. The king and his standard-bearer are nearby, so she stays with them, turning to fight when someone gets too close.

She is assailed on every side as they near a river. Blows to her back, another on her shoulder. Someone slashes at her legs, and she falls.

Her breath comes in gasps. Each one stabs through her chest, bringing tears to her eyes.

Along with the thought of William. _Lad, I would have come back if I could._

Laying on her side, the armor is an impossible weight. Heavy rain over the last several days has churned the ground into a bog of water and mud.

Loud cheering, nearby but sounding distant, erupts. She can feel the feet of men around her. Running, beating the ground further into submission.

Water seeps into her helmet. Despite her pain, she has to move. Otherwise she will drown in her own armor. She turns onto her back.

Before she catches a glimpse of the sky above, her view is further obscured by someone bending over her. Reaching for her helmet.

 _If he finds a woman here, who knows what he will do!?_

But she has no strength to resist him. Her helmet is removed. The air is cold on her face. She blinks, and her eyes clear.

A man gazes down at her in shock. His dark eyebrows are thick and heavy, and furrowed together as one. She sees that _he_ sees who she is.

He kneels in the mud beside her, his face close to hers. He smells of mud, sweat, blood.

"Stay still. I am going to find someone to help carry you…no harm will come to you. I swear it, by Our Lady."

He is an Englishman.

Before she can fully comprehend what he has said, he gets up quickly.

* * *

Thoughts race through his mind when he first sees her face.

 _A woman…she is a woman_ _here_ _, on the battlefield, what is a woman doing_ _ **here**_ _of all places why is she here how did she come here her armor is not from here she is Scottish!? She is a woman, no matter where she is from, if anyone finds out…find John, he will not hurt her_ _ **I**_ _will not hurt her…_

He bends over and whispers in her ear. Getting up, he searches for John. Seeing him, he gestures for him to come, all the while turning in a circle to see if anyone else is close.

 _A woman fighting such a thing is unnatural God did not make women to fight_ _ **this**_ _woman fought from the look of it she must have some skill as she is not dead_

John approaches and sees what his brother sees. He runs and grabs a horse. The two men lift the woman onto it. She groans once, and her body goes limp. Peter mounts the horse with his brother's help, propping the woman against him. She is not dead, he tells John. He hears her breathing.

Around them, the English still celebrate their victory. Peter spurs the horse forward. John follows behind him, telling him to go to the priory in Durham Cathedral.

It is a difficult journey. If he rode alone, it would not take so long. But the horse is strange, and skittish. The woman is slumped in front of him. Peter has to wrap his arm around her, holding her to him, just to keep her on the animal. Her hair hangs over her face.

They receive some looks from some folks. But most people are too curious about what has happened, and they ignore them further when he tells them the English have won the battle.

To his relief, John catches up to them before they reach Durham, having borrowed a horse. The two of them carry the woman into the priory. John's superior, the Prior, is not pleased with the arrangement. But he reluctantly agrees to keep her there as long as they find women to care for her.

John finds a local woman who often supplies the brothers with eggs. Peter promises to come back the next day with his oldest daughter, and goes home.

Matilda and the children are relieved to see him well. He goes to bed early, to let himself rest, but his mind will not let him. Images of the men he killed haunt him.

As does the woman who lies near death.

He pulls his wife closer to him, and tries not to think about how blue the other woman's eyes are.

* * *

Elspeth wakes up suddenly, not knowing where she is. A strange woman touches her arm. You are in Durham Priory, she says. You are safe here. The woman's voice is rather piercing, but her eyes are kind.

Elspeth's armor is gone, replaced by a simple dress. Food and drink are brought to her, but neither tempt her much.

She is in too much pain.

Time does not matter when every breath feels like a day. The first moment she comprehends anything is when she hears a familiar deep voice.

And sees the man who took off her helmet the day before.

"I have brought my daughter to look after you," he says. The girl is tall like her father. "While you are here."

"Thank you," she whispers, her breath shallow. "I…I am a Scotswoman." She does not think they will force her out, not out of a holy place, but she feels it necessary that they know they harbor an enemy.

He nods, unsurprised. "Does the Scotswoman have a name? My name is Peter."

"Elspeth."

Peter and his daughter smile at each other. "My name is Elizabeth," the young girl says.

"Ah," she whispers, a ghost of a smile on her own face. "Like mine. A good name."

She can tell Peter wants to ask her many questions, but she is glad that he does not. He only asks where she is from, and if she has any family. She tells him and Elizabeth about her home. About James, and William.

Peter promises to find out what happened to Thomas. "He may have escaped," he says. From the look on his face, she knows it is not likely.

They do not tell her about the captured Scottish king, but she hears them whispering about him when they think she sleeps.

Her heart aches.

 _A kingdom without a king once more…what was it all for?_

At least they do not triumph over her.

Sometimes she does not mind Peter sitting there when she wakes.

Sometimes she hates it.

He watches her with an expression she cannot describe.

 _Is it pity? Is it curiosity? Does he hate me, wondering if I killed any of his friends?_

Once, when Elizabeth leaves the room to fetch a poultice, she musters her strength.

"Why do you look at me like that?"

"Like what?" He asks, folding his hands. His attempt at innocence is so dreadful, she is tempted to laugh. If it would not hurt so, she would.

 _His wife never has to worry about him lying to her._

"Like…like I am someone you have never seen," she croaks. She cannot quite say what she means. "I am a child of God, the same as you."

"Of course." He rolls his thumbs in a circle. "How do _you_ think I look at you?"

"I don't know." A spasm of coughing overcomes her, and she cannot think of anything else for a time. He gives her a little water. She swallows it, nods her thanks. "You…see me as someone strange," she says finally. "Someone who defies the laws of God by wearing armor. Fighting in battle." Her chest tightens as tears fill her eyes. "A woman who should have stayed at home, tending to her house," she whispers. "A broken, dying woman…one who deserves only shame."

Part of her wonders why she cares what he thinks. Why she should care what _any_ Englishman thinks of her.

But he is not just any Englishman.

Only a man of integrity would have helped her, and not simply left her to die alone. Only a man of honor would have protected her – for she is under no illusions, once her helmet was removed, she was at the mercy of anyone who saw her – and carried her to safety.

He gets up, moving his chair closer. She brushes some of her tears away, wincing. Every movement of her arms brings pain.

He reaches across her and catches her hand, laying it down gently at her side. Then he rubs the rest of the tears from her face. His touch is soothing.

"You _are_ strange to me," he says, laying a cloth against her forehead. "You are Scottish. I doubt God will punish you for that, as much as every good Englishman would want Him to." He half-smiles at her. Then he sighs. "I would never think you deserve shame. If I thought you did, I would have left you on the field."

It is a thought that has stayed with him every day since the battle.

"You were where you were supposed to be," he says. He will never fully understand why she left her home, but he knows he speaks the truth. "Even though it was a battle. You took your husband's place. You defended him, your king, and your land. What shame is there in that? God wants us to love all three. You did so…I do not see a broken woman before me," he says, though both he and she know she is one, and that she is dying. "I see a strong, brave woman who fought when others would have stayed behind."

His words bring both comfort and more pain. He does not see her as simply weak. Another defeated enemy. Someone to hate.

But what use is bravery, when it leads only to death? What use is strength, when she cannot use hers to return to her nephew and home, both of whom need her?

Peter continues to sit by her side. He talks to pass the time. He tells Elspeth about Matilda and his family. Of the priory and cathedral, of the bones of St. Cuthbert buried there. Of the island called Lindisfarne, where the saint once lived.

He is glad to tell the Scotswoman that her armor, sword, and shield have been found. He is disappointed not to have any word of Thomas.

He tells her that other than Elizabeth, himself, his brother John, the Prior, and the local woman, everyone else thinks that it is her husband that is here.

The unspoken implication is that she will be buried as James, not as Elspeth.

"William must know," she whispers late one night four days after the battle. It is harder for her to speak, yet she struggles to say the words all the same. "Promise me that someone will take him the armor…it is his."

"I will take it. I promise," he says solemnly. He touches Elizabeth's cheek gently, to wake her. Then he goes and gets the Prior and John. The priests give Mass. During the familiar ritual, his throat tightens.

Why does the death of one more person affect him so? Is it because she is a woman?

Maybe.

She should not be dying, he thinks. Not just because of the battle. She should be living, watching over her home and family, those she loves. But that is not the path she has walked.

 _If only she had gone another way._

What he said to her, he hopes she remembers. She is brave and strong, and there is nothing shameful in what she has done.

 _He_ is ashamed of what he thought of her only a few short days before. Of seeing just another soldier from Scotland to step over on the way to victory.

If Elizabeth found herself in a similar place, he hopes she would be as brave as Elspeth.

He sends his daughter home with John. The Prior nods off in a chair.

It is so quiet Peter hears the fluttering, the burning of the single candle. It flickers.

Something inside him tells him to hold her hand. To let her know she is not alone. He does, his hand swallowing hers.

Her breathing eases.

* * *

 _Dubhghlas, 1347_

All of Peter's doubts are put to rest when he finally dismounts his horse at the end of his long journey. William, along with Graeme, waits for him to speak.

Both know what he has to tell before he has ever opened his mouth. He is impressed with William, who listens stoically, with his chin wobbling.

He does not blame the boy for weeping.

Graeme tells him later of James's death, how no one except himself, William, and one trusted girl entered their master's room during his last days. How they told of their mistress's vigil.

How they said it was fever that carried the master away, and how his widow succumbed only days later.

How they buried several sacks of flour in Elspeth's place, next to James.

William restores the armor and wears it when he is grown. Though everyone speaks of it as his uncle's, privately he thinks of it solely as belonging to his aunt.

He never bears the same hatred toward the English as some of his countrymen do.

When Peter returns to Durham, he and Elizabeth sometimes visit Elspeth's grave at the cathedral. They often leave cornflowers.

The blue flowers are bright in the summer sun.

* * *

 **A/N: There is NO MORE DEATH in this fic. I can't promise it will all be unicorns and rainbows, but no more Grim Reaper.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Just a short note...I am doing a RL writing project for NaNoWriMo, so updates of all of my fics will be sporadic after this. I was trying to finish this on the weekend, but life intervened and yesterday I was traveling.**

 **Thank you all for your reviews of this fic. I do plan on having a couple more chapters after this one. Please leave me a word on what you think, if you have time. I do appreciate all reviews!**

* * *

 _Glasgow, Scotland, Summer 1794_

Her cousins giggle as they try on hats. Charlotte cannot help but smile at them. She fingers the deep blue ribbon in her hands.

"It would look nice with your hair," Anne says, smiling.

"Yes," she agrees. "But I really don't _need_ it-"

"Not another word, Lottie!" Jane deftly takes it out of her hands. "You have been staring at it since we arrived. _And_ yesterday, when we were here. Here," she hands it to the milliner's daughter. "We will take this as well."

"Jane, I can't let you-" Charlotte protests. Anne slips her arm around her back.

"You'll let her buy it for you, and not say anything else about it. She's a generous soul, you know that!" Anne gives her a kiss on the cheek. "You are _our_ guest until the autumn. Let us spoil you while you are here."

"When you go home to Yorkshire, someone _else_ will spoil you. Though not with ribbons." Jane's eyes danced. "Though he _will_ appreciate them. And your hair."

"Jane!" Her older sister admonishes her, but the younger girl only laughs at her. Charlotte looks down, a smile growing on her face along with her blush.

 _Arthur._

Her fiancé.

She has known him most of her nineteen years. His father's farm borders theirs. She remembers seeing him as a young lad running in the fields.

Their engagement was never in doubt. They are well matched, both being quiet and rather shy. Both unafraid of hard work. Growing up on the land has taught them the lesson well.

And the fact that she is her parents' only child means they will have a bigger farm to hold.

A lump forms in her throat at the thought of Mother. And Father.

How cruel that they died this year. Before she is married.

It is the reason she is in Scotland at all.

When Father died, a distant cousin of his claimed the land. Fortunately her uncle, Mr. Johnson, had the means to hire an attorney and contest it. The land is hers now without question.

Mr. Johnson is a brewer and merchant who moved to Glasgow some years before. For most of Charlotte's life, she has known her mother's brother and his family through letters and nothing more.

They have taken her in and looked after her, generously giving her a home. If only for a short time. After the harvest, Arthur will come to the city and they will be married.

In the midst of her grief, she could not have imagined leaving home for any reason. But her uncle, aunt and cousins have soothed her loneliness – or at least, some of it. She is glad now she will be married so they can be there.

Even if she is an outsider. And it is sometimes uncomfortable that they are _so_ generous to her. She is the poor relation from the country, though no one mentions it.

She thinks about Arthur as they emerge from the shop. She misses him. His letters are frequent, if short. He is busy helping his father, as well as growing a crop on her land. She would have helped him, but it was not proper that she, an unmarried woman, stay at the farm alone.

Next year will be different. Then they will work together, as it should be.

The din of the city jars her out of her head. The constant sounds of horses, carriages, ships, and people. She misses Yorkshire, the quiet.

Aunt Sarah waits in the carriage for them. She has spent the morning making calls. The girls get in, enthusiastically telling her about their day as the coachman flicks the reins for the horses to move.

Charlotte's eyes flicker to the young man's back. She wonders if he wants to be there at all.

She knows she would not, if she were in his place.

* * *

Iain clicks his tongue as the carriage crosses the aqueduct over the River Kelvin. It is a fine, bright day. The horses' ears are up. He grins at them.

 _At least they can trot a bit. Instead of being stuck in a stable, day after day._

If it were up to him, he and the horses would be far from this cursed city, and where they belong. In the country.

 _If we had not been forced out by the landlord. If we could have kept the farm._

 _If Da was still alive._

He swallows, feeling his throat burn.

He, Mam, and his brothers and sisters had come to Glasgow three years before to find work, so the family would not starve. No home, nowhere to go. The younger children are used to living in the city now.

He knows he never will.

It does not help that of the five children, two have since followed their father to the grave.

He blinks back tears. Behind him, the young women chatter like geese.

It does not seem fair that Kit and Alex sleep beneath the ground, while Miss Anne and Miss Jane flit from shop to shop and gossip about men.

He and Kit laughed at them. Not to their faces, of course.

He sighs. Mam does not like him thinking such things. She, along with his younger sister Liza, work as servants in the house. He can practically hear Mam's voice in his ear.

 _Now what good is it, lad, holding a grudge against folks? Do ye ken anything about them?_

Glancing over his shoulder, he glimpses Mrs. Johnson with her niece. If there is any member of the family he feels sorry for, it is the young woman newly arrived in Glasgow. Her parents dead, and someone trying to take away her home.

He knows what that feels like.

Standing in the yard by the stables that evening, he reads the letter again.

… _it would not be like Lanarkshire, but if you want it, the land is yours._

"What? You would rather read than eat?" Liza grins at him, snapping him out of his reverie. "Mrs. Campbell said if you don't come in now, she'll feed your dinner to Captain." Mr. Johnson's dog.

Iain knows the cook does not give idle threats.

"The words won't change, no matter how much you look at them," Mam says gently in the kitchen. She sits down next to him with a sigh, laying one of Mrs. Johnson's frocks on her lap. He looks up from the remains of his stew.

"I know. Mr. McIntosh makes a generous offer." He rubs his hand through his red hair. "Argyll is so far away…"

"Why would you want to go there?" Mrs. Campbell, the cook, asks. "Your mam, Liza and Bobby will stay here in Glasgow. You have a good place here. Why break your back on a farm again? It did not end so well for you the last time, did it?"

Mam and Iain both turn to glare at her. "It is a fine thing for a man to own his own land, if he wishes," Mam says. There is an unmistakable hint of pride in her voice. "Just as there is no shame for a man to drive a carriage and work in a rich man's house. But it is Iain's choice to make. To decide what sort of life he wants."

The cook shakes her head and goes to the doorway to shout at the scullion. It is clear what _she_ thinks he should do.

"It is not all wrong, what she said," he says to Mam. "Mr. Johnson is a good man. It would not be a bad life. In many ways it would be an easier one."

"True." She nods. "But it is not the life _you_ want."

It is not. To always be at the beck and call of others, to never own the horses he tends.

He also wants a family someday. It would be difficult, but not impossible. But to be a coachman would mean his wife would never know when he would be home. To raise bairns in a crowded, dirty city where the air reeks and the water is foul.

He wants more than that.

* * *

The morning sun streams through the window as Lottie finishes her letter. It is good of Mrs. Williams, her mother's old friend, to write her. It makes her feel as though she is still in Yorkshire. Though she has only been gone barely a fortnight, it feels an age since she left.

She sighs after giving the letter to Smith to post. The blue sky calls to her.

The stables are quiet. Petunia whinnies softly as she approaches her. The coachman seems surprised to see her, but saddles the mare for her to ride. He does insist on going with her. She wishes she could ride alone - she often does at home, but she does not know the city or the surrounding areas well. And her uncle would want someone to go with her.

They ride north until the city is behind them.

"Mr. Hughes?" She asks as they approach a small copse of trees near the village of Bishopbriggs. "Where are we going?"

"Here, Miss Thompson," he says, pointing to the trees. "I grew up not far from here. My sisters and brothers and I used to walk to this place. I thought you might like it, seeing as how you said you wanted to ride outside of Glasgow. And you should call me Hughes, like your uncle and his family."

She blushes, embarrassed by her mistake. "I…at home, we never had servants. Just some help in the spring, and during the harvest. And we called them by their Christian names." She pauses as he helps her down from Petunia. "Your name is Iain. Your sister was talking about you last night."

"Yes, that's my name," he says, taking Petunia's reins. It surprises him that _she_ knows his name. He doubts her cousins know it after several years. "And yours is Lottie."

"Charlotte," she corrects him. "My aunt, uncle and the girls call me Lottie. My mother and father always called me Charlotte."

No one has called her by her full name since Mother died. Lottie, Miss Thompson, Miss…she longs both for someone to call her by her name, yet dreads it at the same time. It will never sound the same coming from anyone else.

She has told Arthur of her wishes. She knows he respects them, but he still refers to her both in writing and in person as Miss Thompson. Though he always called her Lottie when they were children. Like most people do.

"Tis a fine name," Iain says. "Though I don't think it would be proper for me to call you anything but Miss Thompson. Even when there's no one about."

"You are probably right." They smile at each other. She goes to sit down in the shade of a tree. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"You are very welcome, Miss."

* * *

During the long weeks of summer, Charlotte comes to the stables often. Sometimes she requests Petunia for a ride. Sometimes there is no time for one. If it rains, she simply visits the animals, and talks to Iain about them. They share stories of growing up in the country.

Only if the other stable lads are occupied elsewhere. Which they are.

Often.

Iain likes her company. She sees him as a _person_ , in a way none of the Johnsons do. He senses that she likes his frankness, and that she can be more herself around him. Even more than she can be around her family.

Over time their conversations turn from being merely about four-legged creatures and add humans. Iain finds she is a good listener. He tells her about his childhood near Bishopbriggs. About Da, who loved to sing. Kit, his closest companion. His brother Alex, who had a fiery temper.

Liza looks after Anne, Jane and Charlotte. She is a sweet girl, but she has a spark about her, he tells Charlotte. Like Mam. His younger brother Bobby is the only one of the family not working for the Johnsons. He works for a merchant, near the River Clyde.

"Did he always want to be a merchant?" She asks one evening. She pats Prince on the nose.

Iain shakes his head. "No. Until Da died, I think he always thought he would be a farmer."

"It _is_ a shame you couldn't stay in your home."

"A damned shame," he says without thinking, his temper flaring. "But no, some wealthy landowner wanted _our_ land to graze his sheep on, and we didn't have any rich relations to hire an attorney-"

He stops, seeing her face.

"I-I beg your pardon, Miss Thompson," he stammers. "I…did not mean to offend you."

"You didn't," she lets out a breath. "You were being honest. If Mr. Johnson were not my uncle, I would likely not have a home, either."

There is an awkward silence as he goes to get oats for the horses. He is very glad when she breaks it.

"I am the one who should ask for your forgiveness," she says quietly. "I suppose I sounded patronizing, by saying something that sounded polite, but really diminished your family's suffering to another subject of conversation. The offense is mine."

"I am not offended," he measures the oats carefully. "I know you did not mean to sound rude."

 _Or English, though that is what you are._

 _You cannot understand what we live with here._

 _How can she understand if no one explains?_

He thinks it would be a bridge too far to tell her everything. Despite her being the daughter of a farmer, she is also Mr. Johnson's niece. And there are details that would be horrible for a woman to hear.

 _Ridiculous. She is stronger than she looks._

"It is terribly wrong, what happened to your family," she says. There is a hint of steel in her dark eyes. "I pray that someday you all will receive justice. And if not in this life, then I pray you all have great happiness."

"Thank you," he says. Perhaps he will tell her all of it. She would listen, he is sure.

"Well." She stands for another moment, then turns to go. "I don't think there will be time for another ride anytime soon. The dance next week…"

He looks up and cannot help but smile at her worried expression. "Mr. Johnson warned me and the lads about the guests coming next week. Your cousins are very excited, I take it."

"They are."

"And you?"

She shakes her head. "I would prefer to sit and watch the evening proceed, but I doubt I will have that choice."

"You are the guest of honor. There are worse ways to spend an evening than dancing."

"Not in my world, there aren't," she says dryly. He holds in his laughter until she goes into the house.

* * *

The evening had not started badly. She was introduced to each guest by her uncle and aunt, and then proceeded to dance with several distinguished men from Glasgow.

Everything appears to be going well. But it is not.

She feels hopelessly like a fish out of water.

 _I am a Yorkshire farmer's daughter, and that is all. I am happy with my lot in life. But to be paraded in front of half of Glasgow society as though I am some heiress, or promised to some rich man in England, when I am not…_

During a break, she stands next to her aunt as the older woman talks with several friends. The musicians play loudly, so she assumes that is why several young women feel free to giggle about her behind their fans.

 _I cannot imagine what is worse. That they think I cannot hear them, or they_ _ **know**_ _I can – and speak of me anyway!_

Her gown feels like it is choking her. The room is stifling.

She excuses herself, and makes her way to the stables. They are thankfully empty, the lads enjoying themselves in the yard with a number of other coachmen, drivers and servants.

She weeps quietly, hiding her face in Petunia's mane.

"Miss Thompson?"

She gasps, lifting her head, trying in vain to dab her eyes with her handkerchief. A stray curl stubbornly breaks free on her forehead. "Hughes. I am sorry, I didn't know you were in here."

"I saw you come in." He bites his lip, his eyes worried. "Are you all right?"

She knows the proper answer. _Yes, of course, I just needed some fresh air. I should return, my aunt will be asking for me, & etc._

"No," she whispers, her voice breaking with her resolve. "I don't belong in there, I don't know half the dances and I feel like a clod during the ones I do." She takes another breath, a half-sob. "And I should not _care_ what others say about me, even when they are rude, but…"

"What are they saying?" He interrupts her. She feels a rush of gratitude. He looks as though he will storm into the house and shout at those responsible.

"Nothing that I have not heard before," she says honestly. "The other girls whisper about my features, my brown face and hands, how Jack must have climbed the beanstalk, and met me at the top." She laughs rather bitterly. "At least in Yorkshire when I heard such things, those saying them had the decency to say them to my _face_ , not pretend to be nice to me, then laugh later!"

"They are…" He swallows several insults, knowing it would not be appropriate to use that language in front of her. "Don't listen to them. You should be proud of being in the sun, of not having pale skin like theirs. It reflects the work you've done."

" _You_ have pale skin."

"Because I burn in the sun. I'm a Scot," he says, continuing on before she can wallow in her unhappiness any longer. "And your height becomes you," he makes sure to wait until she looks him in the eye. "Truly. I've seen other women near your stature, and they always bend over like they are ashamed. But you never do. You stand up straight. And as for your features…" He pauses. "God made you the way He did, and everything He makes is perfection, so anyone who contradicts Him is wrong."

As the words leave his mouth he realizes what he's said. His face and hers redden immediately, and he looks at the ground.

She is both mortified, and pleased to a greater extent than she has ever been before. But she also feels a wave of guilt.

 _I should not be so pleased at a compliment from another man, and a man who works for my uncle, no less._

 _Mr. Hughes called_ me _perfect._

 _Me._

 _I have been called many things, but not that._

 _Arthur has never called me…perfect._

 _He compliments me, but finds it difficult to express himself in words. That is his way._

Iain hastily grabs a brush and begins grooming Petunia, though she does not need it. Charlotte is quiet.

"Thank you, Hughes," she murmurs at last. "That is very kind of you."

She has to concentrate while speaking. She does like the sound of his voice. His lilt is almost musical, she thinks. And as for what he said…

He does not trust himself to look at her, but nods to show he heard her. His face feels like it is on fire.

"Miss Thompson?"

She jumps at the sound of Mrs. Hughes's voice. Taking two steps away from the coachman, she feels further embarrassment at the thought that the housekeeper caught them standing so close together. Though it was not _really_ improper.

Though it feels as though it was.

 _And she is his mother…_

"Yes? What is it, Mrs. Hughes?" She asks, hoping everything she feels is not on her face. The older woman watches her. Her expression betrays nothing.

"Your aunt is asking after ye."

Iain closes his eyes. _Mam, is it necessary that you embellish your accent_ _now_ _?_

Mrs. Johnson has told his mother it would be better if she tried to appear less Scottish. Mam is not pleased with the suggestion, but does try to soften her accent around the family.

Charlotte nods. "Thank you. I'll go directly. I was just getting some air," she says as she passes the housekeeper. She walks hastily back to the house.

The stable is so quiet Iain can hear the singing of the men in the yard and in the street, as well as each brushstroke he makes over Petunia's back.

"Be careful, my lad. Or you'll end up with no job, _and_ a broken heart."

His mother's tone indicates the latter concerns her much more than the former.

Iain looks back at her, giving away nothing. "What do you mean?"

She raises her eyebrows. He tries to meet her piercing stare, knowing that she knows him better than anyone.

Mam shakes her head and follows the young woman back to the house, her keys jingling at her hip.

There is no need for words.

As he brushes down Petunia, he already knows it is too late.

It doesn't matter that he has nothing, or that Charlotte's uncle hired him, or even that she has a fiancé ready to marry her at the end of the summer.

He loves her.

* * *

The summer lingers. In later years, she will look back on those several weeks in wonder. It feels as though they last twice as long as a usual summer, while at the same time hurrying along as if time raced towards the autumn.

She and Iain do not speak again of what was said the night of her uncle's dance. When he accompanies her on rides, they speak of everything else. How the crops grow in Yorkshire, and how it compares to Scotland. Iain's writing to Mr. McIntosh, accepting the land. The young men calling on Anne. News from France. Thomas Muir sentenced for transportation.

He tells her hesitantly of what it was like to be cast out of the only home he had ever known. To watch men destroying their cottage as Mam, his sisters, and Bobby wept. Trying to hold back Alex from striking one of the men, and the terror he felt when the man raised his pistol.

The sound that he heard his mother make when soldiers shot her second son.

Charlotte weeps at the injustice done to Iain's family. It explains so much of who he is – proud of his home, grieved that it is lost, but steady in his resolve to remain independent.

But she feels helpless because nothing can change what has happened.

Just as she feels helpless about the growing divide in her heart.

She can talk to Iain about anything. Things that she has never said to anyone, not even to Arthur. The longing for brothers and sisters as a child. Seeing her father weep when her newborn sister died less than a week after she was born. Her mother's silent grief. The struggle her parents had to keep from losing the farm. Help that was given without their asking by their neighbours. How Arthur, his father, and younger brothers never asked for anything in return.

She talks often of Arthur. How hard he works. His generosity to friends and strangers alike. How his size sometimes frightens the local children, but his quiet charm wins them back. The kittens he rescued, half-drowned in the springtime.

Sometimes she reads parts of his letters aloud. Iain is a friend, she tells herself during those moments, and there is nothing improper to read to him about the weather in Yorkshire or the trouble of a cow gone dry.

At night while Jane sleeps next to her she wonders what it is she _does_ feel for the Scottish coachman.

She fears to even think the word, though she has seen it in his eyes.

On a cool, crisp September day, she sits in the copse near Bishopbriggs, re-reading a letter from Arthur.

"He will be coming here soon."

Iain digs the toe of his boot into the ground. "He said he would come after the harvest was over. Of course he wants to ride north, to marry his bride and carry her home. I would expect nothing less, from what you've told me."

It costs him everything he has to speak without bitterness.

 _My life has just started. Why must it be over so soon?_

"Quite so," she murmurs, folding the letter.

"Miss Thompson," he begins, turning to her, his hand on his horse. His blue eyes burn with intensity. He can no longer wait to say what he must. "If things were different, if I had anything more than a scrap of land in Argyle, if there was another way-"

"Don't say it," she begs, standing up. "Please."

She wants to go home to Yorkshire. Back where she knows everyone. It is home to her, and always will be.

But she wants to cling to the illusion for one more afternoon that somehow both Arthur and Iain can live in her heart. By him saying what he wants to say, there can be no more pretending.

He understands what she feels. He knows she loves Arthur, and he hates that he has caused her any doubt. Kit always teased him that he would break a girl's heart someday.

He wishes that it were not true.

"I have never known a woman like you," he whispers. "This summer has been the happiest time of my life, because of you."

"Hughes," she says, tears shining in her eyes. "Iain…you have been a good friend to me…you _are_ a friend. You brought me to this place," she gestures around them, at the changing colors of the trees, "Knowing I missed the country. I will always remember your kindness."

It is not enough for him, she knows. But it is all she can give him.

 _There is something else. Now is the time. You may not have another day._

She hands him a soft bundle. "This is a gift for you," she says quietly. She thinks he will hate it, that she should not have done it. That it is not proper.

"Shall I open it now?" He asks. She nods, coloring slightly. She turns a little away from him.

It is an embroidered handkerchief, with a letter _C_ stitched onto a corner. Folded inside is a lock of dark hair, tied with a blue ribbon.

Tears fill own eyes. He clears his throat and gently folds the fabric together, the secret inside. "Thank you, Charlotte…I will keep this with me always."

The way his tongue curls around the r on her name is something she will remember for as long as she lives. She cannot think of any response, so she gives him her hand to help her back onto Petunia.

How many times has he held her hand in his? Hundreds? Though he knows he will have it at least once again, when they return to the house, it will not be the same. Not like this moment.

He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it.

She gasps, but does not pull away.

They gaze at each other in the time it takes for a heartbeat to pass.

A bird, flying to another branch, calls to another. Iain takes a breath and helps Charlotte onto her horse. He tucks the handkerchief into his coat, and mounts his own.

They ride back to Glasgow, the silence between them saying everything.

* * *

 _October, 1794_

Iain polishes Mr. Johnson's saddle. He inspects it for the smallest blemish. The lads muck out the stable, laughing with each other. He hears Smith calling for him, and looks up in surprise. The butler is rarely in the stable.

"Hughes," The older man seems rather put out, gesturing at the man with him. "Mr. Carson and his brother have just arrived. He insisted on coming to the stable before going into the house."

"I can spare a moment. As you told me, the family is away this morning," Mr. Carson says. He is a tall man, solid as a rock. Iain has never seen such a large nose on anyone. Smith huffs out an exasperated sigh.

"Yes, but as I said, they will return shortly. They only walked down the street to the McKinnon's, for tea. And you needn't worry about your horse. Hughes here is entirely capable of caring for your mare, and the other-"

"I am sure he is, but I wanted to see for myself," Mr. Carson ignores the indignant butler. He turns to Iain. "Miss Thompson has written to me about you. She said you grew up on a farm. Naturally, I assume that means you know how important it is that the horses, in particular my mare, are cared for properly. I cannot afford for her to be neglected."

If his Yorkshire accent had not given him away, his casual mention of Charlotte would have.

Iain blinks, trying to contain the storm of feelings inside him. "I do, sir. I'll see that she is well taken care of. I'll look after her myself."

"Mr. Carson, if you would follow me-" Smith says, trying to return to the comfort of the house.

"In a moment, Mr. Smith, as I said," Arthur has a hint of annoyance on his face. "Have no fear. I will be presentable by the time the family returns home."

Iain almost smiles. Smith leaves the stable, clearly irate.

"He's diligent, I will give him that," mutters Arthur. He looks down at his dirty boots, his muddy coat and breeches. "Does he always follow guests here, nagging them to come into the house?"

"Er…most guests do not come into the stable," Iain says as honestly as he can. He takes the reins of the mare from the lad leading her. Another lad takes the other horse. Arthur sighs.

"That is my first mistake then. Doubtless there will be more. I am not a gentleman, Mr. Hughes. Just a farmer. Nothing would have made me leave Yorkshire but Charlotte…Miss Thompson, that is."

His face softens as he says her name. Iain is glad to have the horse between them. He begins to brush her down as she drinks.

"She told me you accompanied her when she would ride," Arthur says. "She said you took her riding in the country. Listened to her when she wanted to talk. Kept her from being too homesick for the country. City life doesn't suit her."

"Nor me," Iain keeps his voice calm. He wants to hate the man standing there, but he cannot. "I was just a friendly ear when she needed one."

He wonders if he was completely wrong. If that was all he was to Charlotte. Then he remembers the handkerchief, and his heart throbs painfully. To cover it, he concentrates on his task.

"This is a lovely mare," he says, noticing the horse's glossy coat. "She's been well taken care of."

"Thank you. From what I can see, so are the horses here. It bodes well for a man, that he would take such good care of that which does not belong to him."

Iain looks up at him.

There is no anger in Arthur's eyes. "Thank you for looking after her," he says softly. "I am most grateful to you."

He gives Iain certain instructions regarding his mare before going to the house.

That night, alone in his room, Iain looks at the handkerchief. He kisses the lock of hair in it, and weeps silently.

 _Lord, let him be good to her always._

His heart is broken, but he prays hers will not be.

* * *

As soon as they return from the McKinnon's, Smith tells Charlotte Mr. Carson has arrived. She has to contain herself from running into the drawing room.

It makes her marriage all the more real that he is there.

Arthur looks awkward in his surroundings, but the smile he gives her warms her heart. It is so _good_ to see him after all this time.

"You look well," he whispers after dinner. Aunt Sarah and Jane have prudently removed themselves to a safe distance across the room. "Beautiful."

"Thank you," she murmurs, blushing. They stand so close together she can almost brush the back of her fingers against his coat. "But there is no need for you to compliment me-"

"There is _every_ need, Charlotte," he smiles as her eyes widen at the mention of her name. "You will be my wife soon, after the banns are read. I have the right to compliment you, as well as the pleasure to do so. I do love you, you know."

He has never spoken so openly to her before. Or spoken her Christian name. Her heart skips.

"I had most of the summer to miss you," he says. "I never want to be apart from you for anything, ever again. I…worried that you might like Scotland so much you would want to stay here, and forget about me."

His worried expression tells him that he is serious.

She doubts it is only 'Scotland' that had him worried.

"I could never forget about you, Arthur," she says shyly, speaking his name aloud for the first time. She feels a slight pang for the first man to say hers. "I love you, too. Scotland is a lovely place, and there are things I will miss…but it is time to go home to Yorkshire. I missed it. And you."

Everything she says is true. He reminds her of who she is, and where she came from. She loves him more than anyone.

She will never quite be able to bring herself to explain to him what Iain means to her, but she knows that he is aware of it. And bless him, he never holds a grudge. It is not his way.

But she will miss Iain. Terribly. The thought of it later that night as she climbs into bed makes her heart ache.

 _God, let him be happy._

She and Arthur are married with her aunt, uncle, and cousins present. Arthur's brother William stands with him.

The newlyweds do not stay long in Glasgow. The journey home is a long one, and both wish to be home as soon as possible.

The day before they leave, they walk near the River Clyde, gazing at the ships. Arthur suddenly lifts his hat. Charlotte, her arm through his, wonders who he knows in the city.

Iain Hughes lifts his hat. She gives him a small smile. "Mr. Hughes. We did not expect to see you here."

He looks well, the chilly autumn breeze bringing color to his pale face. "I was visiting my brother," he says. "He'll be sailing away soon."

"You'll be leaving soon as well, we hear," Arthur glances at Charlotte.

"Mrs. Hughes told us you are moving to Argyll," she says. "You must be excited to begin anew."

"I am," he nods. He feels happy, content. "I did not think I would ever own my own land."

"Congratulations," Arthur shakes his hand with genuine warmth. "We wish you well."

"Thank you. I wish you both all the happiness in the world."

He means it. He can even see Charlotte's arm through her husband's without much pain.

Much.

"Goodbye, Mr. Hughes," Charlotte looks him in the eye. "God bless you."

They both know it is goodbye forever.

"Goodbye, Mr. Carson. Mrs. Carson," he puts his hat back on and walks past them. Though he wants to, he does not look back.

She does not either.

* * *

 _Yorkshire, near Ripon, 1856_

Her granddaughter Catherine has brought her another blanket to lay on her lap. The girl also whispered that her guests would arrive soon.

 _She thought I was sleeping. No. I am an old woman. I was remembering._

Sometimes Charlotte feels every moment of her eighty-one years, and the weight of it can be overwhelming. Other times she remembers days long past as though they were yesterday.

 _The copse near Bishopbriggs. The feel of a young man's lips on my hand._

 _Dear Arthur. He adored me and I him, but I can still remember the young man with those blue eyes._

 _Iain…_

"Granny?"

The young man's familiar voice booms above her. She opens an eye. "Good afternoon, Henry. You sound like your father."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," he kisses her cheek. Behind him, his wife Rose laughs with Catherine.

"You look well, dear," she pats Rose's cheek when the young woman greets her. "I hear the lad gave you a hard time when he arrived."

"I forgave him," Rose says, smiling. "And so will you." She sets the baby in her arms on Charlotte's lap carefully.

"So you're my great-grandson," Charlotte says to him, her wrinkled finger touching his distinctive nose. _A Carson, through and through._ "What is your name? Henry, like your father?"

Henry smiles at his grandmother. "No. We thought another family name was more fitting. If he had been a girl, she would have been Charlotte, but when he arrived, we decided to name him Charles."

Her heart swells. There are several Charlottes in the family, but Henry and she have always been close. It means everything to her that he would name his son after her.

"Charles," she says, and the infant opens his eyes. "I am very glad to meet you."

She smiles when he wraps his little fingers around her thumb.

* * *

 _Argyll, 1866_

He hears the quick footsteps before the cat flees from him. Mairi whispers in his ear. "Jamie and Margaret are here-"

"I know, lass," he laughs. "I may be blind, but I'm not deaf!"

 _Thank God._

The door bangs open. "Poppa!" A girl's voice squeals, and Iain smiles broadly. A moment later he feels her little arms around his neck, and her weight on his lap.

"Och, Elsie, you are growing so big," he murmurs into her hair. "Margaret, what _are_ you feeding your girl? She'll be bigger than me soon!"

"Elsie, be gentle," Jamie says. "What did we say at home? Your Poppa is frail, and we must be careful. He broke his leg not long ago-"

"My leg, but not my neck," Iain turns his head in the direction of his grandson's voice. "Let her be." He hugs his great-granddaughter close to him. She hums under her breath.

Of all his relatives, the youngest is one least afraid to treat him as a human being, rather than someone who will shatter into a hundred pieces. He's had everything happen to him in his ninety-one years. Smallpox, consumption, a dislocated shoulder. Losing his sight. A broken limb.

 _A broken heart can be just as painful as a broken limb._

He was a young man when Charlotte Thompson broke his heart. That was another time, and a different century altogether.

He can still see her in his mind. The curl that refused to stay with the rest of her hair.

The way her hand felt in his.

His great-granddaughter slips her own hand into his. She will see the end of _this_ century, and likely a good stretch of the next.

"Elsie, lass," he whispers. "I am so glad you're here today!"

He leans forward, listening as she chatters about the family coming to visit. She stays on his lap. He hugs her more than once, feeling blessed indeed.

* * *

 **A/N: And we're (almost) to canon. TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This is the first of two chapters posted. There one isn't _quite_ canon, but...almost. Thank you for all the lovely reviews. If you could leave a tiny review for this one, I would really appreciate it. And to all my fellow Americans - have a safe and very happy Thanksgiving! I'm very thankful for you all. :)**

* * *

 _Downton Abbey, 1887_

Charles walks with a little spring in his step down the long lane. The weather mirrors his mood. The sky is a robin's egg blue, with bits of wispy white cloud above. The air is warm, but not too much so. A soft breeze lifts his hair.

He doesn't often take his afternoons off. But today is a special day.

One of his Lordship's tenants is driving to Ripon, so he gets a ride on the man's wagon. He will have to walk home, but the way he feels, a run to London and back would be easy. He finds himself smiling like he hasn't done in…well, years.

 _Since Alice?_

The thought of her sobers him. Over ten years have passed since he returned from his misguided attempt at life outside of service.

 _Look how far you have come since!_

That cheers him.

The farmer drops him off about a mile from Ripon. He only has a little further to go. In a lovely meadow, he picks some wildflowers. Blue cornflowers.

No one is in the graveyard behind the old country church.

He takes off his hat, and weeds around his parents' graves. The wreath he laid there after Christmas is an evergreen, and still in good condition.

On the left side of his father's headstone rests his grandparents. And behind them, his great-grandparents. He lays the cornflowers in front of his great-grandmother's stone. Time has worn it down, but he can still make out her name.

Charlotte Carson.

He cannot really remember her face. But he remembers digging in her garden, while she sat nearby. Him bringing her whatever bright blossom he could find. Her wrinkled fingers holding his short, childish ones.

 _Dad named me for her. He and I used to walk here after church. She loved cornflowers…_

He stands up straight, feeling his knees crack. He's still a young man. Barely in his thirties. But being on his feet all hours of the day and into the night takes its toll.

It is worth it.

He goes back to his parents' graves, brushing off his hands.

"I wanted to tell you all," he says quietly, addressing the stones like an audience, "that his Lordship told me yesterday that I will take over after Mr. Davies retires. It won't be until after Lady Rosamund gets married, but I'll be working with him closely every day until then."

The air is still, holding its breath. Like it is listening.

He feels like those sleeping beneath the ground are just beyond his vision. Smiling, with love in their eyes.

He clears his throat, sniffs, and wipes the corner of his own eye. "I'll be the youngest butler Downton Abbey has ever had." He cannot keep the pride from his voice. Not here, not in this place. "Her Ladyship was pleased. She said so. And Viscount Downton shook my hand after dinner last night…it wasn't proper, really, but I am glad he was happy with his father's decision."

It is likely Robert will be Earl for most of his career. They have gotten along well, including when Charles acted as his valet several times on trips to London, before Shaw was hired.

It is vital that the two of them work well together.

He is confident they will.

He wants to make his family proud, even though he feels alone. A number of his cousins live near Leeds, and others have been scattered even farther away, but he has not seen most of them since his childhood.

For all intents and purposes, he _is_ alone.

But not completely.

 _Mum, Dad, Granddad, Great-Granny…I know you're with me. Always._

Returning to the Abbey later that afternoon, he savors the view of the great house as he walks toward the servant's entrance.

 _Charles Carson, Butler at Downton Abbey._

 _Me_ _._

* * *

 _Downton Abbey, 1895_

Elsie swallows a little when the house comes into view. Not much daunts her, but the Earl of Grantham's home is much more imposing than Lady MacNair's in Dumbarton.

 _You knew it would be, girl. This is no time to lose your nerve._

Mrs. Allen introduces her to the few staff downstairs. Many of the rest are in other parts of the house, as it after teatime, and the family upstairs is preparing for dinner.

The sharp-tongued cook Mrs. Patmore is new to her post, the housekeeper tells her. "She's forever after the key to the store cupboard. But she'll never get it from me. And I trust she won't get it from you, either." She smiles at Elsie before leading her up the stairs.

As head housemaid, Elsie will share a room with another maid. She knows it will not be for long.

 _Either I accept Joe, or follow Mrs. Allen as housekeeper…which is what she intends for me._

She stumbles on the stairs thinking of her dilemma, dropping her suitcase in the process. Mrs. Allen is ahead of her on the landing to the first floor. Just as Elsie falls forward, two men come through the door there. A broad man catches her elbow before she lands on her face.

"Are you all right, miss?" He asks, in the deepest voice she has ever heard. He keeps hold of her until she resumes her footing. His large hand is warm on her arm.

"Perfectly so. Thank you." She looks up into dark eyes, with furry eyebrows knitted together above them. A large nose and dimpled chin.

"Mr. Carson, this is Elsie Hughes. The new head housemaid," Mrs. Allen says. "Elsie, this is Mr. Carson, the butler. Are you all right?"

The blood rushes to Elsie's face. "I – am fine, Mrs. Allen. Thank you. I just lost my balance on the stairs." She turns quickly to the man standing next to her. "I am honored to be here, Mr. Carson."

"We are glad you arrived safely. You must have had a long day," he replies, letting go of her arm and motioning for the other man to go downstairs. He hands her the suitcase, and she takes it. "Lady MacNair spoke very highly of you. Mrs. Allen, I'm going to ring the gong in a quarter of an hour."

"Right you are, Mr. Carson. I'll be right down."

The butler descends the stairs, and the women keep going up.

Neither the housekeeper nor the new housemaid see him miss a step, and catch himself on the railing.

Elsie wishes she could crawl into bed in the attic, and not come out for a week. _This is no way to begin! Nearly falling on my face in front of the butler!_

Despite the grey hairs streaking through his black hair (she suspects he subdues it with great deal of pomade), he looks young. Much younger than she would have thought for a butler of such a great house.

"How long has Mr. Carson been the butler?" She asks as Mrs. Allen unlocks the door to the women's side. She really wants to know how old he is, but she is too sensible to ask that.

"Let me see…going on eight years now," the housekeeper opens a door to one of the bedrooms. "He came here nearly twenty years ago, as second footman. Martha has the left bed, so the right is yours."

 _He cannot be much more than forty._

Elsie sets her suitcase on the spare bed and removes her hat and gloves. The room is not as drafty as her old one.

Or her room at home that she used to share with Becky.

"After you're settled, come down to the servants' hall," Mrs. Allen says. "The family will be having dinner soon. We have our dinner after, so there's no rush." She leaves, her keys jingling at her hip.

Sinking down on the bed, Elsie sighs. It _has_ been a long day. And every day after this one will be long as well.

She is not sure what she thinks. Of course, it is far too soon to think she won't get on at Downton. But Joe won't wait forever for a more definite answer, either.

Re-reading his letter again, tears come to her eyes. She is practical enough to know it is not simply that she misses him. Which she does.

But she also misses home. Scotland. Dear Becky, and Mam.

Downton is a strange place.

Before traveling to Yorkshire, Lady MacNair had allowed her to go home for one more visit. That was the last time she'd seen Joe, as well as Mam and Becky.

She unpacks her suitcase, putting away her scarce belongings. Tucked in one corner of the case is a small wrapped bundle. An envelope with her name written in her mother's handwriting intrigues her.

Inside the bundle is a very old handkerchief. One corner is embroidered with the letter _C._ It is folded in such a way that when she opens it, she almost misses the faded blue ribbon fluttering onto the bed.

She carefully sets both ribbon and handkerchief aside to read Mam's letter.

 _My dear Elsie,_

 _You might be wondering why I didn't give this letter to you personally, or the gift sent with it. In truth, it is because even now thinking of doing it brings tears to my eyes. And I have no desire to keep you from leaving Scotland. This choice is your own._

 _Whether you decide to accept Joe, or stay at Downton, I love you. Da would have been so proud of the woman you have become. It is him you should thank for the handkerchief, as it has been kept by his family for many years, not mine._

 _I'm sure you remember your father's grandfather, Iain Hughes. We went and saw him as often as we could when you were small._

Elsie sits up and gazes into the orange glow of the oil lamp. "Poppa," she whispers.

She can remember the scent of wood-smoke in her great-grandfather's house. His black cat. The way his stubble scratched her face when he would give her a kiss. How she "showed" him her doll, letting him hold it, so he could feel the button eyes and cloth body.

A laugh bubbles from her mouth. He told her more than once that his house smelled of trees because he used to _be_ one. She almost believed him.

But what does a delicate piece of cloth have to do with him?

Or with her?

 _The handkerchief belonged to him. It was something he kept near him always, according to your great-aunts. Aunt Sarah thought it belonged to your Poppa's sister Catherine, called Kit, and that the ribbon once had a lock of her hair. She died when she was very young, when she was about seventeen. Poppa hardly ever spoke of her to anyone, even in his last days._

 _He told your father the handkerchief reminded him of a happy time in his life. This was a surprise to Da, and everyone else in the family. We thought Poppa was miserable when he lived in Glasgow. Especially after Kit died._

 _I have often wondered if he was fond of that time because it was when he was young, or if it reminded him of when his family was still together. For whatever reason, it was very dear to him._

 _As were you._

 _Before he died, he told us he wanted you to have it when you were grown. He said he hoped it reminded you that love does not end, and that at times happiness is found in unlikely places._

 _It is yours now. When you see it, remember what he said. And remember those who love you, both those in your past and in your present. See where God leads you. I trust that you will go the right way._

 _Your sister and I will keep you in our prayers, as we know you keep us in yours._

 _God bless you._

 _Love,_

 _Mam_

Elsie sets the letter down, crying softly. Grabbing half-blind at her own handkerchief, she dabs her eyes.

It means everything to her that she receives the gift now. Today. She had felt guilty in accepting the post at Downton, both for leaving Joe without a definite answer, and for leaving her family behind.

Her mother's blessing gives her strength.

She kisses Poppa's handkerchief. It is a piece of home, a bright corner of happiness, of love, of hope. She folds it carefully with the ribbon inside.

She doesn't know if she will accept Joe's proposal. But in the meantime, she has a job to do. She washes her face and goes downstairs to the servant's hall.

* * *

The footmen, Fred and Peter, wait nervously as Charles inspects the table. Lord and Lady Merton have been invited for dinner, as has the Dowager.

"Well done," he says finally, and the two younger men breath sighs of relief. He tells Peter to wait in the hall until after he returns upstairs, after checking the wine. The Dowager may arrive early. She often does.

He goes through the door to the servant's staircase just in time to catch a woman from falling on the landing. Mrs. Allen stops on the stairs, and Fred nearly runs into his back. He asks the woman if she's all right.

She assures him she is, in a pretty lilt that leaves him in no doubt of her country of origin.

 _Ah, she was arriving today. The new head housemaid._

Mrs. Allen introduces Elsie Hughes to him. She is older than he expected, though with her experience, he thinks he should not have been surprised.

She is a woman, not a young girl.

A woman with dark eyes, of an unknown color. As he waits for her to regain her balance, he wonders at her firm grip on his arm. As if it is she who usually does the steadying.

It is clear she is embarrassed to have almost fallen in front of him. It is all he can do to keep from smiling when she blushes.

 _I will have to have a word with the footmen, and the hall boys._

The sound of his own name has never made his belly flip over.

He can't remember the last time he missed a step, either.

He looks up after he stumbles, hoping the women didn't see him. They are out of sight, still going up. He breathes a sigh of relief.

Looking after the family and their guests at dinner, and overseeing the footmen, provide more than enough to occupy his mind. By the time he trudges downstairs, he has forgotten the new head housemaid.

Until Mrs. Allen gestures to her before he sits down. Flustered, he bangs his knee against the corner of the table. He covers his clumsiness by clearing his throat.

When he tells Elsie what he always says to newcomers, about upholding the honor of the house and the family they serve, she listens demurely, her hands folded at her waist. But there is a glint in her eyes that he does not miss.

 _Is she laughing at me?_

He finishes his short speech, with a reminder to all present that it applies to them as well. He sits down and the servant's dinner begins.

* * *

She has to concentrate not to smile while Mr. Carson speaks.

 _Yes, yes, of course we must 'uphold the dignity' of those we serve, but he speaks of them as though they're more than mere mortals. I want to do my job well. But that is all that it is – a job._

Martha, her roommate, says the butler is stern, but fair. Peter glances at the end of the table.

"He's an absolute sergeant," the footman mutters under his breath. "I think he was born wearing his livery. He's got no heart at all…if someone ever cut him, he wouldn't bleed. He's probably stuffed with sawdust."

Two other housemaids and one of the hall boys giggle.

"I'm sure he's just like any other person," Elsie says. "Like you and me. Warts and all."

Mrs. Allen clears her throat from her place at the foot of the table, and the chatter about the butler stops.

Over the next several months, Elsie grows accustomed to her new life. Getting to know Downton and its people, both upstairs and down. The American countess is perhaps the only person more foreign than she is within its walls. But the young woman has a good head on her shoulders.

"I'll admit, when his Lordship married her, I wondered if she'd cope," Mrs. Allen confesses one evening as she goes over the linen rota with Elsie. "But she learned fast. There's no doubt she's the mistress here now."

"I wager the Dowager would dispute that," Elsie grins. The older woman smiles, lines appearing around her eyes.

"And you'd be correct. If he weren't such a stickler for tradition, I believe Mr. Carson would agree with the Dowager. But he will never say so. Not to me, not to anyone."

The comment reminds Elsie of something that has nagged at her. "I notice you never speak with Mr. Carson, except when others are present."

"Yes," the housekeeper underlines a note in her book. "He feels, and I agree, that we must maintain the same standards as the rest of the staff. Footmen and housemaids are not to be alone together."

"And you do not think the butler and the housekeeper should be considered an exception to the rule?" Elsie cannot keep the skepticism from her voice. "What if you need to speak about something discrete, or if you disagree with him?"

 _Not that I have ever heard a breath of disagreement from you._

"Those are valid questions," Mrs. Allen says patiently. "But when you become housekeeper, you must understand. If a situation arises among the staff that requires discretion, I write him a note and leave it in a secure place in his pantry. He decides what to do, and writes back to tell me. The same goes for disagreements. You will get used to it in time."

 _That is absurd._

Mrs. Allen sighs at her expression. "I know it may seem excessive to you, but that is how things are done. There has never been a complaint from the family about our behavior."

"Of course not. But both you and Mr. Carson have a high regard for honor," Elsie argues. "Isn't it important, though, that as heads of downstairs that you understand each other as-well as _people_ , and not just as colleagues?"

It seems obvious to her that running a household well requires knowledge of the fellow head of staff as well as everyone else.

She is astonished that Mrs. Allen knows virtually nothing of Mr. Carson, outside of what she gleaned from when he was a footman. Not even what his favorite vintage is.

"I don't see what that has to do with running the household," the housekeeper persists. "Personal details have nothing to do with it. This is the way the house ran when Mr. Davies was in charge, and his predecessor before him."

 _And I am sure Mr. Carson is glad it has stayed that way._

It is clear Mrs. Allen defers to him in everything, despite the fact the woman is older and has plenty of experience. And even though there are no stains on the honor of either head of household, Elsie has noticed a number of details that she would not hesitate to bring to the butler, were it her place to do so.

Like how Peter has a gift for passing off his own work, leaving Fred and Patrick to carry a heavier burden. How the housemaid Esther bullies the hall boy Tim. The poor boy has been caught in tears by Mr. Carson, and the butler has lost patience with him more than once. And Elsie has serious misgivings about her Ladyship's maid, O'Brien. Who knows what is going on there?

It is not that Mrs. Allen does not notice these things. But the woman tends to leave problems among the staff festering until they boil over and cannot be ignored.

And that is something Elsie cannot abide.

On the whole, she likes Downton Abbey.

It is a good place. Most of the staff are diligent and friendly. Even Mrs. Patmore has a sense of humor beneath her sharp tongue and short temper. Elsie's wages are generous, and she is cheered by Mrs. Allen's faith in her.

 _When_ _you become housekeeper, she said. Not if._

 _When._

 _I can make a life here._

She finds herself looking forward to a future in service.

The day the position is officially offered to her, she takes a walk to the village to clear her mind. Thinking of Scotland, of home.

Writing to Joe is one of the most difficult things she has ever done. He is a nice man – _very_ nice – and there is a certain comfort in knowing what to expect as a farmer's wife.

But she doesn't want to give up her position. She takes pride in her independence, and it feels good to send most of her wages back to Mam.

Within a year Mrs. Allen retires.

And Elsie inherits her chatelaine.

The first challenge she faces is gaining the butler's trust. She thinks it is important that they talk with each other, really _listen_ to each other. But she knows better than to simply barge into his pantry.

She thinks about inviting him to her sitting room, but she thinks he would find it improper.

 _There must be another way._

* * *

 _Downton Abbey, 1896_

Charles is sorry to see Mrs. Allen leave, though he knew the day was coming. It is yet another sign that time moves on.

At least he has grown used to Elsie Hughes. Enough that he doesn't stumble on the stairs, or bark his shin against the table. It helps that she is utterly capable at whatever job she's given, and is entirely professional.

More than once he has lain awake at night, wondering what she thinks. About anything.

He has an inkling she will not be happy simply carrying on with how the downstairs has always been run. Mrs. Allen said as much when she wrote him farewell.

But he is surprised.

The first fortnight after Elsie becomes housekeeper, nothing changes. The housemaids seem to take the change in their stride. His high standards are maintained.

One morning as he enters the servant's hall for breakfast, he stops short at the sight before him. Esther, hurrying down the stairs, collides with him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson-"

He pays no attention to the flustered housemaid.

He is too busy glaring at the housekeeper.

She stands behind a chair not at the foot of the table where she _should_ be, but at the corner. Right next to his chair.

He opens his mouth to ask her what she is doing, but realizes he can't, not without making a scene. The staff are curiously looking in his direction. He strides to his chair and sits down. Everyone else follows suit, including the woman at his right hand.

 _Improper_ , roars his brain as the kitchen maid carries in the toast. Before he can pick up the top piece, the housekeeper does so and begins spreading jam on it.

His mind is in a complete muddle.

 _What is going on here!?_

It does not help that he can see glints of red hair woven in with her darker strands. He says the only thing he can think of.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hughes."

"Good morning, Mr. Carson," she says, as though everything is normal. She sets the toast in front of him. He stares at it blankly, then back at her. "Don't you like strawberry jam?" She asks, her eyebrows raised.

He blinks. "Yes, I do. I – thank you." He takes a bite of it, wondering how she knew.

 _Did Mrs. Allen tell her? Not likely…I'm not sure_ _she_ _knew._

There is a lot Mrs. Hughes knows. Some of it he knows himself, or guessed at. During meals they begin to trade concerns about the staff, about ongoing problems with the running of the house.

He feels as though he's lost a bit of his control, what with her having so brazenly changing her seat, but the transition is so seamless he doesn't mind. Much.

 _Oh, very well,_ he thinks a week later. _As long as she doesn't try to push me too far._

Mrs. Allen was a fine housekeeper, but he had often felt he was the one keeping standards high. Mrs. Hughes keeps them without him having to give her a nudge.

He finds himself getting impatient with the short conversations they have as the weeks and months pass. There is much more to say about various matters, but the proximity of staff in the servant's hall and constant interruptions keep them from being able to communicate further.

And writing notes back and forth is rather tiresome, he thinks.

One evening before dinner, he catches her coming out of the kitchen.

"Would it be possible to have a word later?" He sucks in a breath. Her expression is stormy. From the way Mrs. Patmore shouts at the kitchen maids, the two women have just had another tussle over the store cupboard key.

"Of course, Mr. Carson," she says, frowning a little. Martha walks past them to the hall, and Shaw rushes by, in a hurry to dress his Lordship. "Though we always have a word or two during dinner."

"Yes, but that isn't what I meant, exactly," he stumbles, hoping he's not overstepping the mark. "You see, there are a number of things we need to discuss, and dinner does not afford us the opportunity to do so in a reasonable way…I do not mean to sound improper, but would you mind if I came to your sitting room later, after dinner?"

She blinks several times. Her expression is inscrutable. Finally, she shakes her head. "All right, if you think it best."

"I do." He feels lighter knowing she does not think it is a terrible idea.

"Well then. We will speak later, then. And no, I do not find it improper." She gives him a small smile and moves on, heading to the laundry. The keys on her chatelaine jingle as she walks away.

He does not see her satisfied smile.

 _Well, thank goodness he got there in the end!_

That first evening their conversation is a short one, with her door open to the hallway. Just in case anyone should wonder.

As the months roll along into years the evening talks get longer. They vary from simply talking about their jobs, and the day-to-day workings of the Abbey, to their personal views about the goings-on in the world. About life.

After he deems an appropriate time has passed, Charles begins bringing glasses with him. A sherry with their conversation is a good way to relax them further.

The staff finds it routine to knock on the door of his pantry or her sitting room and find both there. Not just in the evenings, but at various times of the day.

It becomes so routine, everyone forgets that it was not how things had always been done.

* * *

 **A/N: And...on to canon. And beyond.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This is the second and last chapter posted tonight. Thank you all so much for your support of this strange fic. I know our favorite pair didn't make an appearance until the end, but I hope you all like the bits of canon thrown in. As well as the little extra parts. :)**

 **I do not own Downton Abbey, or its characters.**

 **If you have a minute, please leave a word or two of review.**

* * *

 _Downton Abbey, 1913_

He sits on the other side of the table in her sitting room, not quite believing what he's hearing. He tells her to go on when she hesitates. He listens to what she says, his mind churning.

 _An old beau turning up! Now!? Not after all the upheaval we've been through already, with Mr. Crawley and the entail._

"And he was…horrible and fat and red-faced and you couldn't think what you ever saw in him," he says, hoping she takes his comments jokingly.

Though he's not sure he means them that way.

But she smiles a little, and acknowledges the passage of time on Joe Burns.

"And he proposed again, and you accepted?"

He can barely look at her when he asks her. She is his friend, he realizes. Not just a colleague.

There is no one he trusts more.

Surely there can be no other reason why Mrs. Hughes is bothering to tell him this than to tender her resignation. She is a private person, and has rarely spoken so openly.

He lets out a breath when she tells him she didn't accept the proposal. The emotion in her eyes when she tells him she's changed surprises him. She does not often show her vulnerable side. Not to him, not to anyone.

 _She trusts you, too._

He gives her the best advice he can think of. About the point of life being change. He marvels at the irony – that it has been she who has been the proponent of change.

 _I've changed._

 _She's changed_ _ **me**_ _._

Though he's almost entirely sure she is _not_ leaving, he can't help but ask her openly. Of course they are interrupted. But before she follows Anna out the door, she gives him peace of mind.

"Leaving? When would I ever find the time?"

 _I hope she never does._

* * *

 _Downton Abbey, 1918_

She knows the instant she walks into his pantry before dinner.

 _I should have known he would never abandon Lady Mary. He would leave everyone else first, but not her._

 _Of course._

Squeezing her hands together, she keeps her voice as light as possible.

"You've made your mind up, then."

It does not comfort her when he says he has – _but with a heavy heart, Mrs. Hughes._

She cannot imagine being at Downton and never hearing him say her name. Turning her face away, she fights to keep her composure. It would do no good to embarrass him.

"And just when we thought we were getting back to normal!"

She can hear the pitch of her voice rising, and so can he.

 _Miss you?_

"I will, Mr. Carson," she says, somehow keeping herself together.

She cannot look him in the eye as she tries to tell him the truth, all the while feeling her resolve slipping away.

"Very much. And it costs me nothing to say it."

Late that night, after the longest, weariest climb she can remember, she reaches her room.

She manages to keep quiet, but tears spill down her cheeks.

 _He is the dearest friend I have._

With shaking fingers, she takes out Poppa's old handkerchief. Mam is gone, and Becky is in Lytham St. Anne's.

 _Somehow I will have to go on without Mr. Carson, too._

* * *

 _Downton Abbey, 1920_

He feels like such a fool.

So much had been going on – Lady Mary's long-awaited wedding to Mr. Crawley, Mrs. Levinson coming to visit, the disastrous dinner party that turned into a picnic upstairs. And on top of all of that they were understaffed!

What it was that caught his attention, he couldn't say. Something about her seemed off. But he told Mrs. Hughes that despite his crabbiness, he was on her side.

 _Like you've always been on mine._

He tried to get an answer from Dr. Clarkson, but the man wouldn't tell him anything definite.

Mrs. Patmore, on the other hand, confirmed his worst fears.

 _Cancer._

If someone had asked him the day before what he was most frightened of, he can no longer think of what he would have said.

He knows now what frightens him most.

 _She may be very ill._

 _Or…_

 _Don't even think it!_

When he blurts out to her that he doesn't want to see her tired, she confronts him. Demands to know who he's been speaking to. A small part of him is pleased to see her spark, even if it is muted.

He does tell her Ladyship about the housekeeper. He feels it necessary for someone to know. Mrs. Hughes is stubborn enough to carry on as if all is well, but he worries Lady Edith's wedding will sink her.

He is very glad when Mrs. Hughes tells him how touched she was from what her Ladyship said. Coming from her, that is a compliment indeed.

For the first time in years, he wakes from a nightmare on the morning of the wedding. He sits up, shaking, his hand on his mouth.

 _Mrs. Hughes, lying cold and still…_

As soon as he suggests to her that she could stay and rest, rather than attend the wedding, he knows it is a mistake. She practically growls at him and Mrs. Patmore.

 _Boxing her up! No, that would be impossible!_

He practically flees out the door.

The next day he sees her getting ready to go out. By her expression, it looks like she has an appointment with the executioner. Her face is stoic. Strong.

He asks if he can help but she puts him off. When Mrs. Patmore appears, he knows they're going to see the doctor.

 _Please, God, let her be all right._

He can't settle on anything, not even the tea tray. He keeps checking his watch. Wondering what's taking them so long.

And if it is a bad sign.

Polishing the silver does nothing to ease his mind.

When he hears the cook's voice in the hallway, he nearly drops the tray he's holding.

Mrs. Patmore tells him it's not cancer. He breathes for what feels like the first time in _days._

After getting a promise that she won't tell Mrs. Hughes he knows, he goes back to the silver. Everything seems much brighter, somehow. An old song comes to mind.

" _Dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my heart away…_ "

When and how she stole his heart, he hardly knows. Or cares. But his heart is no longer his own. He knows that now.

Not that he can tell her.

He does not see the housekeeper biting back a laugh in the hallway with tears in her eyes, as she hears him singing.

* * *

 _Brighton, 1923_

The sun is very bright, blinking off the rippling water. She watches some revelers swimming. Her feet feel blessedly cool after she tiptoes through the hot sand.

She wonders if Mr. Carson will join her. She hopes he will.

 _Honestly, how can he stay on the beach in this heat, without enjoying what's in front of him?_

The sigh he makes when he steps into the water warms her heart.

She can't help daring him to come further in. They have come a long way from him being appalled at her for sitting beside him at breakfast.

 _Trousers wet?_

 _If he really cared about that, he wouldn't have come within a mile of the beach!_

"If you get them wet, we'll dry them."

He blusters more.

 _Dear man…he likes me teasing him._

She makes sure to phrase herself just right. She knows him well.

"You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady."

His rumbling about being risqué makes her laugh. After all they've been through together, surely they can begin to admit what they feel for each other.

Slowly.

She cares for him more than anyone else, and she knows he feels the same.

 _He sang for me._

She holds out her hand, and he takes it.

"We're getting on, Mr. Carson, you and I. We can afford to live a little."

As they paddle in the sea, her heart feels lighter than it has ever been. His hand in hers feels like it belongs there.

He has her heart. And just for today, it is enough to hold his hand.

* * *

 _Downton Abbey, 1925_

The party goes on, the gramophone echoing down the hall. Daisy leaves the room, quite glad that she has survived for another day. Part of him thinks that if the assistant cook had said the same things in front of the family five years ago, never mind ten, that she would have been sacked immediately.

But her Ladyship wants the errant young woman to stay, so he must respect her wishes.

He suggests joining the others, but his fiancée (oh, how he loves thinking of her that way) asks to have a word.

She looks nervous. Diminished, almost. Of course bringing up his conversation with Mrs. Patmore is awkward for her.

He has to concentrate to hear what she says. He loves Mrs. Hu- _Elsie,_ dearly. He has not called her by her Christian name yet, but he wants to. He feels it would be more appropriate after their marriage.

Her slumped shoulders, though, and her downcast expression tell him the truth. He feels as though a cloud has descended and cut off light, happiness, and air.

 _She thinks she's made a mistake. She doesn't want a 'full' marriage._

 _Or any marriage at all._

He tries to collect the shattered pieces of his heart.

 _I wanted to be stuck with you. Forever. But if it isn't what you want…_

"Right," he says quietly, unable to look at her. "Well, if you've had second thoughts…I think we should let the staff know in the morning. I won't make a big announcement."

 _Let me do everything. The last thing I want is to cause you more pain._

"We'll just tell one or two people, and we'll let it come out naturally. There'll be a bit of a nine days wonder of course, but…we'll get over it."

He never will.

 _She will. She is a strong woman. She got over it easily enough with that fellow years ago._

And then she speaks. She is nervous, yes, that is plain, but her words knit his heart back together.

 _A_ _disappointment_ _? Her? How could she ever think she couldn't please me?_

"But if you're sure…" she says, a step closer to him.

He absolutely must assure her of his love.

"I have never been so sure. Of anything."

Her big eyes are wide, and she's quoting Cromwell, of all people.

Warts are the last thing on his mind. Only her, his beautiful bride-to-be, the woman who is giving herself to him, the woman that he wants above anyone else on the earth.

He touches her face, marveling at the softness of her skin. Then their lips touch.

And he forgets everything around him.

There is only her.

Elsie.

She hums into his mouth. The sound makes him want to keep kissing her forever, but he is too much of a gentleman to continue. And he does not want to frighten her.

He pulls back from her lips, feeling contentment at the blissful smile on her face. He kisses her forehead gently and envelops her in his arms.

Holding her feels almost as good as being held _by_ her. Her arms wrapped around his torso, her small hands on his back.

He cannot wait for their wedding.

* * *

 _Scarborough, 1925_

His silver hair is soft under her fingers. She smiles at how curly it is, without the pomade.

"I didn't know you were so enamored with my hair." He sighs, and kisses the hollow of her throat. He hugs her closer, resting his head on her chest.

"Of course I am. It's part of you." Clearing her throat, she kisses the top of his head. Her voice is a bit raspy. _His fault, there._ "The rain made it curlier. Well, more curly than usual."

"Mmmm." His voice vibrates over her heart. "It's always been like that. I think you enjoy mussing it further."

"I do indeed." She lifts her head when he rises above her, her mouth meeting his. She can't help giggling a little once she can draw breath.

"What?" He touches his forehead to hers before turning more onto his side, resting on his elbow. She smooths down one of his eyebrows, blushing as his eyes travel down, taking in the sight of her nude form to where it disappears beneath the tangled sheets.

"It…it's the middle of the afternoon," she says, unable to say fully what she means. Though she feels sure he knows.

"Ye-es," he draws out the word. From his pleased expression, she is certain he knows what his voice does to her. He picks up her left hand and tastes her fingers, lingering on each one. "And we…toured the castle this morning…and walked about after lunch…until the rain chased us…indoors."

It still tap-tap-taps against the windows.

"Which…pleased you, I'm sure." Her breath is ragged under his touch. She had no idea her fingers in his mouth would feel like… _that._

"You were kind enough to agree to my suggestion to explore another part of Scarborough." His lips find her palm, then her wrist. A laugh bubbles out of her mouth.

"'Another part of Scarborough?' You meant this room!"

"As I said, you were very obliging, coming back here with me." He wags his eyebrows at her.

She lets out a gasp when he suddenly sits up, pulling her with him. She isn't prepared for the movement, and she bumps her head against his shoulder.

"Oh, I'm so sorry – I didn't mean to hit you – "

He wraps an arm around her, drawing her into an embrace. Their bodies are pressed together. "You didn't," he murmurs. "But I didn't hurt _you_ …did I?" He scans her face anxiously.

He has been nothing but gentle with her.

"No." She rubs her thumb on his dimpled chin. "You just surprised me, is all."

He traces her face, moving some of the loose strands of hair out of her eyes. She looks away, not used to the heat of his gaze. But he means no harm by it. She knows that now.

He tilts her chin up with his finger. "Do you know how beautiful you are?"

A memory stirs in her mind. " _When you talk like that, you make me want to check the looking-glass to see that my hair's tidy."_

Her hair is not tidy in the slightest at the moment.

"You are, you know," he persists. "I love the color of your eyes."

"You're quite handsome yourself, Charlie." She says shyly, liking the smile that lights up his face. They kiss again, then again, until their movements flow together into ones that were once strange, but are now more familiar.

Five days they have been married. Five days of momentary awkwardness mixed with genuine joy.

It is all still so new, to both of them.

Not just the "aspects" of marriage which had confounded them during their engagement. They have worked together for years, and lived under the same roof.

But they've never known what it's like to wake up next to each other. Seeing the other person in slumber.

She adores watching him sleep. To see his features soften, seeing the boy inside the man. And she has woken up more than once to find him smiling at her.

He loves knowing that having her beside him is not a dream.

 _She is my wife!_

He can't stop smiling, even when they are out and about. He truly is the happiest of men. After a lifetime of keeping his feelings buttoned up (sometimes literally), it is a relief to let his guard down.

Of course, she has seen the man beneath the butler for a long time. He feels like he is just beginning to know the woman. For all her openness, she has kept a firm grip on her own emotions.

" _I don't understand you."_

" _No. You wouldn't."_

He loves her. But the depths of her love for him scared her, and her reaction on their wedding night frightened him.

 _She weeps, turning her head aside. He is still giddy from their first time, but even he knows his wife crying beneath him is not a good thing. He moves off of her as quickly as he can, his heart sinking as she rolls over, scrambling across the bed. Away from him._

 _ **Oh God. I've hurt her.**_

" _Elsie?" He asks tentatively. He wonders what he should do. She sits up, pulling the sheet with her. Covering herself. She reaches for her handkerchief beside the electric lamp on the bedside table and holds it to her face, sobbing._

 _He is at a complete loss as to what to do. He thought the most difficult part of their wedding night would be what happened only a minute or two ago. If he had thought at all of what happened after, it would be kisses, cuddles, soft murmurs of love._

 _Not her weeping on one side of the bed, and him with a sick feeling on the other._

 _She shakes her head, trying to speak._

" _I'm sorry…"_

 _ **I'm**_ _sorry, he wants to say. For what I've done._

" _I've frightened you. I didn't meant to," she sounds more like her usual self, though her face is blotchy and tears still shimmer in her eyes._

 _He lets out breath. "I've frightened_ _you_ _. You've done nothing wrong. I-"_

" _Charlie." Both the soft sound of his name on her lips and her movement across the bed closer to him calms him somewhat. "I…" She leans her head against his shoulder. Very slowly, he puts an arm around her and is relieved when she doesn't flinch. "I can't…" She huffs out a sigh. To his surprise, she laughs at little. "I don't know why this is difficult."_

 _He breathes a sigh of relief that she is a bit calmer._

" _But I didn't hurt you?" He asks. He leaves a soft kiss on her temple. She shakes her head._

" _No. You were lovely." Tender, kind, and gentle, she thinks. She brushes her fingers against his cheek. She doesn't want him to worry, and she knows he is. Biting her lip, she closes her eyes when he holds her hand against his face._

 _ **And to think I thought HE would find it difficult to talk about such things.**_

 _ **It is overwhelming.**_

" _What is it?"_

" _I love you," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I am so happy to be your wife. To be yours, and for you to be mine, for good…it means everything." Tears start in her eyes again. "You must think I'm terribly silly."_

" _Never." If anyone understands what it feels like to let go of one's feelings after a lifetime of stopping them, he does._

" _I should stop flannelling on, so." She chokes back another sob. "But I can't seem to stop. I am happy - truly I am!"_

 _He hugs her close, smiling. "I know. So am I. And…you're sure I didn't hurt you?"_

 _He wants to be sure._

 _Running her hand through his hair, she pulls his head down to hers. "I have never been so sure."_

The rain falls in a steady stream outside their window. He slides his hands down her back, feeling the curve of her body. Shuddering, she takes a breath and releases him from their kiss.

"Och, you're tickling me," she murmurs, before leaning down to kiss him again. To be safe, he moves his hands up.

"Sorry. It wasn't on purpose." The words come out in a garble, mostly in her mouth. He feels her laugh.

"I think it _was_ , Mr. Carson."

He beams up at her, unable to keep his mirth to himself. "Maybe it was, Mrs. Carson."

Grinning, she wraps a finger through one of his curls, color blooming on her face. "Then maybe you should make it up to me."

"What did you have in mind?" He puts his hands behind his head. She moves up further.

"I think you already know the answer to that."

He does.

They miss teatime entirely.

* * *

 _Near Downton, New Year's Day, 1926_

They get back to the cottage at half-past one. They-no, _she_ he reminds himself, do not have to be back at the Abbey until later in the morning. He can go, of course, but Mr. Barrow is in charge now.

Both of them are quiet as they prepare for bed. He should be exhausted.

But he isn't.

The events of the evening, and the previous weeks keep spilling through his mind.

His hands shake as he grabs a towel to dry off his face.

She is in their bedroom plaiting her hair when she hears him. Leaving her hair half done, she runs into the bathroom.

And wraps her arms around her crying husband.

There is nothing she can say. It will be a different life, and no doubt they will both be up to the challenge of facing it, but at the moment reality is hitting him hard.

"Fifty years…" he whispers, tears dripping into the sink. " _Fifty_ bloody years, and this is how it ends."

For how long he is bent over, struggling with his grief, neither of them are aware.

She weeps with him. _Selfish_ , she tells herself. But she can't help it.

There has never been a day that she has been at Downton Abbey when he was not the butler.

He has been by her side for all this time. Even during the Season, she felt his presence.

What will it be like now?

She grieves with him, too. For his dignity. For his pride. Of course there are so many things to be thankful for – his Lordship's gratitude not the least.

But in the wee hours of New Year's Day, they grieve together. For the end of a chapter in their lives.

He finally does pull himself together and finishes preparing for bed. When she turns off the lamp, he gathers her into his arms and they hold each other. In the darkness, in the silence.

He almost is ashamed of his need for her at such a moment. She is tired, as is he, and she will have to get up and go back to the house before the morning is done.

And yet as he presses a soft kiss to the back of her neck, beneath her ear, his heart leaps when she whispers his name.

"Charlie," she breathes, turning over. Their lips meet, and their hands do the same.

Whether his hands shake because of the palsy or because of his own desire, he hardly knows. But he loves her, and she cherishes him, their sighs and wordless whispers echoing in the room.

Only once do they speak.

"Stay with me," he pleads, his breath on her neck. She gasps. It is impossible for them to be any closer together.

"Always, love. _Always._ "

* * *

 _Near Downton, 1926_

"Hello?" She calls. She goes into their kitchen, and sees lunch laid out, but no sign of her husband. She drinks some water. The summer day is hot outside.

"In here, Elsie."

He's in their sitting room, with various items scattered on the loveseat, on the floor, on the ottoman. Books, papers, other assorted things.

"Still sorting?" She asks. "My, my. I didn't know we had so many things." She moves aside a wooden box, and sits next to him on the loveseat.

He kisses her, then gestures around them. "It isn't that we have an Abbey full of memories," he grins at her, "But the ones we _do_ have are quite precious, and I find it very difficult to decide to…get rid of anything."

"I knew it," she shakes her head, her eyes sparkling. "You're a romantic, Charlie Carson, and I love you, but we can't keep _every_ picture Miss Sybbie gives us."

"No, indeed," he laughs. "I've arranged those in piles over there-" he gestures to the floor, "-according to which ones are the most special to us. But I wanted to show you something in particular. I'm not sure what to make of it, to be honest."

She picks up Poppa's old handkerchief and the ribbon from the ottoman.

"What of them?" She asks. "You've seen them before. Miss Baxter sewed both very carefully into the inside of the coat Lady Grantham gave to me for our wedding, remember? They were my 'something old' and 'something blue'."

"Of course I remember! She did well to sew them so delicately without destroying them. But that's not what I wanted to show you." He leans across her, to the box she'd moved. He takes out a small embroidered cap. "My great-grandmother sewed this before her first child was born. All of their children wore it at their christenings, as far as I know. I know my father wore it at his, too. And I know I did. My mother left a little note with it, saying as much. That's why I ended up with it. But I'd forgotten about it until today."

Charles puts it in Elsie's hand. She marvels at how small it is, how small her big man was once. Then she frowns, holding it closer.

"This _C_ embroidered on it…"

"It's almost exactly like the one on your great-grandfather's handkerchief. I know. Like I said, I don't know what to make of it."

Elsie holds the handkerchief in one hand, the cap in the other. She is completely baffled. "Well, as far as I know my great-grandfather Hughes never left Scotland. His sister Kit certainly didn't." She turns to her husband. "Maybe _you_ have Scottish blood!"

He takes the cap from her, rubbing his thumb over the _C_. "Not likely. Everyone in my family as far back as I know, including my great-grandparents, were born and died in Yorkshire, not far from here."

They sit, pondering the mystery. Finally, Elsie sighs. "Well. I doubt we'll ever know for sure how this happened." She kisses him on the cheek. "Let's have something to eat. I know you're hungry-" They both smile when his belly rumbles. "-and maybe after lunch we can take a walk to the lake? It's a fine day as long as we stay in the shade."

"It's your half day. We can do whatever you like." He squeezes her shoulder, and they set the old items carefully into the box before going into the kitchen.

* * *

 _Narbonne, France, 1927_

"Well? What do you think?"

Elsie turns to her husband rather reluctantly. The balcony of their hotel room overlooks the canal. "I…think it's quite pretty."

He puffs out his chest proudly. "It's quieter than Marseille. There are a number of vineyards to visit, and we can go see the Roman tunnels and part of the Via Domitia tomorrow. If you like."

She rolls her eyes, not wanting to give in. "Yes, there is quite a lot to see here. But if you think this changes my opinion of the blessed Lady Mary-"

"She thought we would enjoy it." He raises his eyebrows. "Are you actually saying you _agree_ with her?"

"Maybe…I did think coming to France was a bit much, though!"

Charles tosses his hat onto the bed and goes to stand next to Elsie. He wraps his arms around her waist. "I thought the same. You know my opinion of the French, and anyplace foreign for that matter-"

She laughs, her eyes dancing.

 _Yes, I DO know your opinion of anything or anyone foreign._

"-But this was a gift from the family for your retirement. And mine, really," he admits. He kisses her hair. "You had your way with our wedding. We could hardly say no to this."

"Fair enough," she leans against him. "Let me freshen up, then we'll go down to dinner." Her eyes twinkle. "We can find out how you like _their_ cooking."

* * *

Charles wakes suddenly in the darkness. As he moves, he hears the bed squeak.

 _Mmmm. I should have known._

Fortunately, his wife still is deep in slumber, her back against his chest. He lays there listening to her breathing.

He wonders what time it is. As he cannot seem to fall asleep, there seems to be no other alternative than to get up.

The bed complains when he does so, but Elsie remains asleep. He turns on a small lamp, smiling at how peaceful she looks.

 _Now that she is retired, she can sleep as long as she wants._

Peeking outside, the first faint hint of light is in the east. He shivers a little on the balcony.

She wakes slowly. It is so very nice to wake to one's own tune, and not to someone knocking on the door. Sitting up, she rubs her face.

 _Where is he?_

There is some light peeking through the balcony door, but otherwise it is still dark. She pulls on her dressing gown.

He startles a little when she slips her hand into his.

"Are you cold?"

"Not now that you're here," he gives her a hug, then lingers on her lips for a while. "Did I wake you?" He smooths his thumb along her hairline, moving her braid over her shoulder.

"No." She links her fingers through his once more. "But I wondered where you'd gone."

"I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd watch the sunrise."

They stand silently, almost holding their breaths, as the sky brightens from grey, then blushes pink. Both of them blink when the sun breaks the horizon.

"Beautiful," she whispers, her hand up to shield her eyes from the glare.

"Yes. I can't remember the last time I watched a sunrise," he says softly. "Both of us have stayed up through the night before." He squeezes her hand. "This was exquisite. But the best part of it is being here with you."

"I quite agree, Charlie."

They kiss softly as the sun climbs further into the sky.

* * *

 **The End.**

 **A/N: I'm not totally satisfied with how this ended up going, especially the canon bits, but I hope you all liked it anyway.**


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